How I love my kitchen.

If there is one thing I can always depend on, it is my kitchen.

I absolutely love cooking. In the kitchen, I am thrust into a ballet of organic symphony. A simultaneous unfolding of what can only be described as magic happens when I enter my kitchen. All the elements of the universe combine, forging a tremendous surge of creation that spawns in my imagination, at my fingertips, and in the air around me. I can breathe in the meal before I’ve even opened the fridge.

My passion is not just in cooking, but in living. The life of the kitchen is the pulse of my home. The beat of its heart is in the flames of the range.  The sound of its breath steadied in the sway of my knife. Each ingredient is an organ, playing its vital role in the development of something much greater than its components. The air is full of density, heavy with scent. Lingering notions of ingredients surrender their individuality for the greater good.

I can come into my kitchen and leave my life. Departure in the most serene sense. I become my meal. My body, my thoughts are no separate from the tiles I stand upon. Nor am I any different from the food I eat. My intentions are of love, to create a better world. There are so few moments of the day that are as tangible as the procession of creation that occurs in the kitchen. A timed and timeless unfolding of such ease and clarity is measured by procedure and translated through sensation. I must chop vegetables, heat a pan, and gain enlightenment.

In this process, my kitchen becomes an alter for which I am the priest. Both a servant and recipient of the wondrous bounty of unlimited energy. It doesn’t matter who I am, what I think, or how I feel. My kitchen always takes me in.

 

 

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