06 November 2019


I have never made bread before but I know how it tastes. A little research and willingness to fail go a long way. So I follow a simple recipe. Everything's going well until it isn't. Until I'm not sure if dough should be this sticky. Yet I knead on.

Then by accident or instinct, I smell my hands. It smells of bread. From hereon I know that I'm in the right direction. At this point the journey and the destination are one and the same.

Thing I made

A year ago I felt a desire to cook with a freedom akin to swimming (I would often tell friends how learning to swim changed my life). It's still a mystery what pushes me to finally act. I always wanted to bake but keep thinking about my lack of space and tools. Apparently, I have more than enough. My 10 X 14 chopping board is the perfect surface. My tiny oven toaster holds the heat. My hands.

I have everything I ever needed. This I learn soon after deciding to begin.

Since July I've made popovers, copied Gennaro Contaldo's Tuscan chicken, wielded a spurtle, proved my perfect sunny-side up is no fluke, owned my first cast iron.

The year's theme is 'kindle', because I am missing a hunger for poetry and I am hungrier for company. Well I can say that I read more and better now. As for friends, old and new ones have entered my world soon after I decided to open the door wide.

Cooking, however, that's a surprise. Like I said, I can compare it to swimming, reading, writing, and playing the piano. It fills me.

What's next, it seems, is to cook for. I love working with my hands and I would love to be a source of fullness.

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