The tomatoes are a little overripe I realize as I try to glide the knife across them and they squash and become a mess. I disregard the nuisance and chop at them anyway. The last of my ingredients go into the bowl and I feel satisfied that I’ve allowed myself the time to cook today.
My small simple kitchen has been replaced by endless gadgets and large workspaces. Conveniently, I realized cooking wasn’t really my forte and I adjusted into a fraction of the space with astonishing ease. I cooked in the past because I didn’t have a choice. I enjoy entertaining and feeding, even cleaning pleases me. Now I wonder why cooking for myself has become such a chore. I’d rather cook when I can share; invite someone over, but it’s not always doable. I’m ready to take on the battle for just one other person. The planning and preparation of a wholesome dish for someone to enjoy, there’s just some unexplainable satisfaction I gain. I don’t need recipes and gathering ingredients comes with ease for me, it makes me believe practice does eventually make perfect. I miss sharing meals. There are times I satisfy my hunger with whatever I can. Other times I feel I’m worth the effort of whipping up a gourmet meal for myself.
When I was a little girl, I didn’t have an interest in cooking. My creations resulted in disasters and my mother would mourn the loss of her ingredients. My father, on the other hand, was always hard to please when it came to food, but he assured me, next time I’d do better. I’d offer to clean up instead or be the courier from one house to the next because my parents would share dishes with neighbors. It was my mother who taught me never to return an empty dish. If someone went out of their way to cook for you the least you can do is appreciate their effort and return the favor. Lucky for the neighborhood, both my parents were good cooks, they also had big hearts when it came to sharing.
When I travelled with my dad, it wasn’t the person selling trinkets that caught his attention, but the person begging for food. He always gave in to hunger. “No one should die of hunger” he’d say. My mother would never close her kitchen, if I was hungry at 10 P.M. she would gladly feed me. They taught me how to make meal time a group effort. When I moved abroad, my mother walked me through recipes over the phone. My father would gladly whip up favorite dishes for me when he visited. He’d say he could do better than the restaurants, and to that statement, I’d give in. He disliked the performance one had to display when dining out. He would argue that you should be able to taste and share, enjoy a meal without constriction. A meal isn’t just about exploring the palette, but about the aromas and satisfying a deeper taste; the company, conversations, laughter and restfulness of unwinding. Taking your time to savor every bite.
I watch the sun setting and to balance out the ambience, I pour myself a glass of wine, it pairs well with the music. I believe when one begins to feel comfortable dining alone is when you’ve rooted the very essence of being secure in your own skin. Simple things bring immense pleasure if you can make a little time to appreciate them. We need that time on our side to create some worth for ourselves. It’s what we live for and what we work for, isn’t it? All we need to survive is but two meals a day, for this simple need we complicate our entire existence.
As I plate my dish and settle down, I give thanks. The solidarity allows a part of you to inhale the gratitude of a meal, but a noisy crowd gathered at your table also satisfies the notion that meals were meant for sharing. Whenever and wherever you can, don’t discount sharing a meal and always be thankful you can.