I am not much of a cook. To be honest, I don’t cook at all. The kitchen has always been a space I have shunned for the (imagined) drudgery that must be carried out within its walls. Running my hands in repeat motions over a boiling broth has never defined my idea of time well spent.
And yet, I have watched enthralled as food masters and many a mistress of spices have created magic in a bowl. I have spent precious minutes devouring the choicest phrases describing a meal cooked with love. I have often led myself to imagine a life set amidst curious curries and painted pots.
The body has played its part. There is the scent sorcerer, the nose that dives for treasures unseen. Then there is the palette, which defies kitchen-hatred and is always a keen diary keeper of trusted tastes, with the oft surprise that gets a special note. The eyes linger on scrumptious sights while fingers turn crusaders.
Even as I’ve escaped daily cooking so far, there have been fluffy chocolate cake days over the years (“I don’t cook, I only bake” doesn’t look so bad), a lone sandwich or two and more recently ice-cold shakes. Many a dying banana and malfunctioning mango has been rescued by a magic swirl. Peanut Butter, Oreo Cookies, Instant Coffee have all met their milky match in these adventures.
There is hope then, for carrots and peas and crunchy beets, for onion in wine and sun-kissed lime, for hands to rise and practice each turn, for cinnamon dreams to perhaps ring true.