I remember taking a class at Brevard Community College called Student Success Skills. I was fifteen and dual-enrolled. Success Skills was all about order, methodology, preparation—and I loved it. I organized all my binders and threw myself into finding ways to muscle productivity out of the most mundane activities. Standing in line somewhere? Pull out flashcards and study for an upcoming test. “Down time” became my enemy, and I reaped the benefits, academically at least.
That bit about the flashcards—I remembered that this morning as I sat on my couch, listening to Beta Radio, drinking green tea with honey I bought at the farmer’s market last week. I had been reading a book but had set it down, and I was just sitting there, with my tea and music, feeling happy and present.
Because that, I think, was what I really learned from the flashcards: to not be present. If an activity isn’t naturally productive, make it productive.
Last night, we had Warren over for dinner. Sharon and Story are visiting family out of state (no, I haven’t killed the garden yet, though one of the cucumbers and some of the broccoli plants aren’t looking so great…sorry, Sharon). Earlier this week, I’d read through half the new issue of Bon Appétit and had come across several recipes I wanted to try.
See, another thing I’ve realized is that while I cook all the time, I have stopped challenging myself in the kitchen, and it’s that challenge that I really enjoy, it’s pulling off a difficult meal, the sense of accomplishment. I mean, I enjoy cooking the standards, too, the meals I know will turn out, but sometimes it’s fun to live a little dangerously.
Well, last night I made a chicken dish with a sauce made with roasted garlic, white wine, butter, cream, and tarragon. On the side, a salad of rice, corn, avocadoes, poblano chile, yellow bell pepper, zucchini, cilantro, and a lemon juice dressing. And buttermilk biscuits.
Everything turned out perfectly. I’m not just saying that. It was perfect. The chicken was tender, the sauce tangy and creamy, the salad delightful, the biscuits like fluffy little pillows.
Sharon called as we started eating, and Warren stepped away from the table to take the call. While he was gone, I took my first bite of the chicken and then whispered to Jesse, “I don’t want to brag or anything, but this is stinking good.” And he said, “Yeah, I hope this is going on the list of ‘Things to Cook All the Time.’”
The recipes weren’t complicated. In fact, they were downright easy. They weren’t challenging in that way, but cooking that meal took my full attention—getting the three things to come out on time, cooking all three simultaneously, the biscuits being a last-minute whim, making sure everything was chopped and ready, the stirring and the tasting and the adjusting. I was fully present in the kitchen, and then I was fully present while eating what I’d made. Enjoying it. I left all the dishes for this morning.
No flashcards necessary.
And this morning, a quiet sleepy Saturday with eggs and leftover biscuits for breakfast, Jesse heading out to golf with guys from the small group, and me, sitting on the couch, listening to music and drinking tea, remembering me at fifteen, remembering last night’s meal, the garden having been watered this morning and book work to do later on. But that moment was just what it needed to be, nothing more, and it was lovely.
