I love everything about it. I love shopping to find ingredients, looking for new recipes, throwing out recipes all together, experimenting, testing, tasting, and trying again. I like rushing and raving and doing things fast. I like slowing down, waiting, simmering and stewing. I like it all.
And it makes me happy.
I mean really and truly happy.
And it does it better than anything else in my life. Better than my family or friends (no offense I do love you guys), better than my favorite song on a perfect day, or the smile of a million babies. When I'm cooking I am doing something that I am truly comfortable doing, something that comes naturally to me. That, in and of itself, is enough to make it my favorite thing in the world.
See, I am not good at very many things. As a matter of fact I'm not even OK at many things. I'm out of shape, bad at sports, bad at math, and a terrible writer. I have some social anxiety issues which makes me pretty bad at talking to, well, humans. I'm uncomfortable and akward in nearly 90% of my daily life.
But then there's the kitchen.
I will venture to boast that I AM GOOD AT COOKING. I'm smart at cooking. I'm even GREAT at cooking sometimes. I know it. I have it down and the things I don't know I can pick up with ease. It's in my heart and down deep.
It means so much to be that this past Thanksgiving my family went to my brothers future in-laws to eat. This meant we didn't have to cook anything. I was so upset that I insisted that I be allowed to cook a second thanksgiving meal at our house a week later. Which I did. Turkey (brined for 8 hours and roasted), mashed potatoes (both garlic rosemary and traditional plain), dressing (sausage, sage and apple), green beans (sauteed with bacon and garlic), and homemade yeast rolls (best I've ever made).
Sounds stupid right? I spent an entire paycheck on food just to have the pleasure of busting my ass for 12 hours to cook it all myself on a Sunday.
Such is my relationship with cooking, my one true passion.
What's yours?
