Central Park Kitchen - 5 new articles
I wake to the poetic musings of Ruth Reichl describing her breakfast - 140 character love haiku. I am prone to snicker a bit during the day reading Gesine Bullock Prado's snarkiness. And I cheer out loud at each of Jamie Oliver's victories in bringing attention to the critical issues surrounding healthy eating and teaching children about food.
I've made new "friends" following Paige Orloff and Kim Severson, a fantastic journalist and foodie. When Kim announced the release of her new book, Spoon Fed: How Eight Cooks Saved My Life, I jumped on Amazon to order it. Something about the title struck a cord.
And today Kim's tweets pointed me to a fantastic article in the Toronto Globe and Mail about Cooking as Therapy. This did more than strike a cord. It answers the long-standing question of why I cook. It isn't a hobby for me. It is a necessity, a compulsion, a creative outlet, a healing act. It is my chance to mother to nurture and to gather a flock.
From the article:
Leading food psychologist Dr. Brian Wansink, head of the Food and Brand Lab at Cornell University, has studied “nutritional gatekeepers” or influential cooks. He found that of the five main types of cooks, three use cooking to get through rough patches.
Countdown to Move In: 41 days
On the Menu: Welcome Wagon Baskets for my neighbors - what better way to meet people?
- Spiced Nut jars
- Lizzie's Famous C3 (chunky chocolate chippers) Cookies
- 2x4s (2 inches x 4 kinds of chocolate)
That lovely place was sold and the odyssey of my homelessness began.
Let me be clear. I am far from out on the street. I want for just about nothing. But I've been bouncing from apartment to apartment - all quite temporary places - looking for a home to share with my cookie monster. And while he's been trying to find the perfect house, I've been trying to find my place to live within it.
Home is where my kitchen is. It is where years of accumulated knives and bowls and boards and cookbooks, recipe scraps, wooden spoons and spices, all sorted and stored, whisper to me when I walk in the door.
My kitchen has always been a place of creative expression. It satisfies my longing to nurture others and to be nutured. With busy hands and a free mind, it is my place of meditation. I solve all kinds of problems in my kitchen - from getting shortbread cookies just crumbly enough to nailing a brand positioning problem, to quieting a troubled heart (usually my own).
Not having my kitchen leaves me frustrated and sad and confused and far too ready to reach to ordinary restaurants and prepared foods that leave me unsatisfied and unfulfilled. Food sinks to the lowest common denominator space in my life - a utility.
My precious bits and bobs have been in storage for the better part of the three years since selling the Central Park place. And my cooking and baking have been sporadic at best. My hand and my palette are yearning and shaky like an unused muscle. I miss my kitchen like I'd miss a dear friend whom I hadn't seen for a while.
Time to find my kitchen again - long overdue really.