Life Lessons in a Pot

I’m terrible at baking, probably because I learned how to cook the same way I learned how to drive: by watching my dad do one thing, and then turn to me and say “Never do that. You’ll get yourself killed.” If nothing else, though, at least it taught me that words without action are meaningless, which to be fair is a hard lesson to instill in a poet. Cooking has a way of doing that to me, teaching me things that I’m not sure I would learn any other way. The kitchen itself comes with a little, small-print warning sign, Perfectionist be ware. There is no perfection in foods. You can only control so much before it’s out of your hands, there are only so many variables you can keep in check… and that’s OK. If it’s a mess, at least you can eat your mistakes.

Humility is another thing. Most of our foods now come pre-packaged, pre-made, just stick it in the microwave and go. Which is great, but it also means that we forget where the things we eat come from and why they matter, what kind of work actually went into what ends up on our table. We forget that we are eating things, plants and animals, that gave up their lives to support ours. Cooking is a good reminder of where we come from, in my opinion. It’s hard to feel invincible when you hold an egg in the palm of your hand and realize how fragile existence is, how small and temporary and beautiful. Cutting meat and breaking eggs is sort of like saying a prayer. Thank you. I understand, I appreciate. Thank you.

And in exchange for being humbled, you get food. You get life. You get the knowledge that you can create just as well as you can devour, and that you really need nothing more than what you have right now.