Cooking in a good mood is a symptom
The focus on experimentation gives the chore a new meaning
My therapist knows that things are going well when I say I cooked a meal for myself. It's some sign, or symptom, of pleasant tidings.
I hardly cook. I'm at the office for breakfast and lunch, and when I get home, the last thing I want to do is to put my precious time into chopping assorted vegetables, soaking grains in hot water, and praying for them to mix well under heavy heat. Chemistry was always a subject I hated in school, and cooking is, at its root, chemistry.
Of course, as any salaryman & proletariat, I have few choices. When cooking is necessary — and the funds for the occasional delivery are non-existent — I do cook. When possible, I have frozen, pre-made food in my fridge, waiting 6 to 8 minutes for applied microwaves to turn from ice to a not-so-delicious meal.
I'd be happy with astronaut food for my daily meals. Sometimes I want to swallow sustenance and continue my day without bother. Most times, my lunch is not a search for lost flavor, a place for experimentation or excitement. Lunch is usually an interruption.
I don't need my daily eating to be perfect, just to be fulfilling.
Then, when I tell my therapist that I cooked, she knows I'm not talking about regular, daily, this-could-be-a-protein-bar cooking. She knows I'm talking about a different, capital-c, special-moment cooking, something I discovered more than created, a ritual of sorts. I hardly cook like that, and I know deeply that my mood is the main spice in my recipes.
When I'm in the mood to cook, things are going well — In a way, I find leverage to mess things up; It's ok if my plate ends up horrible, and I resort to ordering some pizza. This is about the experience, not perfection.
When cooking with a smile, I try whatever comes to mind. I get whatever I have in my fridge — usually empty of ingredients — and make something out of it. What? It doesn't really matter.
These days I had mushrooms sitting there, waiting for a good day to happen. When this day finally came, I chopped them into slices and fried them in really high heat — Thanks Annika, for the tip — and, when they looked good enough, I realized I could do more. What about... some soy sauce? And a pinch of sesame oil? That would give them some Japanese or Chinese food vibes, right?
They got way too salty, but that matched perfectly with the saltless rice I had done. I still hear the dangerous amount of garlic sizzling beside freshly chopped onions, making a bed of flavor for the incoming rice grains — done the Brazilian way.
This straightforward recipe was happy cooking. Nothing fancy, just trying and erroring, making sure the journey is more important than the destination. I missed some spiciness, so I put some sriracha on the rice, making it red. Did I expect red rice with sauée mushrooms as a recipe? Absolutely not. I wanted to cook, and that was all.
I confess to having little cooking experience due to the way I was raised and the environment I ended up in. I never needed to touch cooking utensils — other than in washing dishes — in my household. My mother or an employee cooked when I was a kid — something familiar in Brazil. My ex-wife is a fantastic cook — she makes her own pasta dough, tomato sauce, everything — and we ended up signing this unwritten contract of "she cooks, I fix." I put nails in walls and turned screwdrivers way less than she flipped pieces of meat, for sure, and I apologize for this. While married, I could only cook fried eggs with rosemary or fancy omelets with tomato and bacon, while she did genuine chemistry, mixed sauces and spices with proficiency to fill our bellies after tough days.
I have not cooked a single egg since I arrived in Germany.
After my divorce, I started being more in the kitchen, by force of "you now live alone." I had to learn everything from scratch. I lost the fear of a pressure cooker, understood a frying pan, and got my way around an oven. Now, cooking is something I do to myself and always in this experiencing way, not looking for the perfect result but enjoying the whole process as... fun. Cooking is, at the same time, cumbersome and fun; it all depends on my mood.
Then, dear reader, I ask you: what is cumbersome or fun, depending on your mood? Working, for instance, has a thin line, easily crossable, between these mood states. Writing as well: this article started as cumbersome, and now I'm having a lot of fun organizing these thoughts.
Cooking can be a chore when I'm not the best with myself. It also can be the most amazing experience when I'm good inside.
Maybe there's something you tried once and disliked. Is it time to give it another chance in a different mood?
What do you need to try again?
I'm using the Chat feature in the Substack app.
What about continuing this discussion there?