Whenever it’s time to write, all I want to do is cook. The ingredients are wasting away in the fridge like a time bomb ticking. My waste-not-want-not Grandmother’s voice is more compelling than the deadline of class tonight or the need for a ticket to my writers’ group this weekend. Like neglected vegetables, the ideas, impressions and thoughts in my brain will rot if I don’t sit down right now and capture them in words. They want to be rinsed and inspected, chopped and sautéed, mixed and spiced and slow cooked until the moment of final seasoning and serving. My dear, my precious chile verde pork, my short short story about the woman who lost her wig, I enjoy them more when I share them.
So there it is. I honor the physical more than the metaphysical. My interior musings are less precious to me than the last harvest of peppers from my garden. This week I read in the NY Times that forty-six percent of all food produced in the United States is discarded. Wasted. Garbage. Maybe ninety six percent of my story ideas never get written, or finished, or shared. Perhaps that’s the appeal of cooking. It’s more of a sure thing. I know, I’ll spend the time, and at the end, I’ll have something nurturing, something healthy, that I can share, that I can freeze, and defrost the next time I’m hungry.
The food will not last as long as the story. I have stories from years ago, but things I used to cook often, like waffles, are no longer stockpiled in my freezer. I could make more waffles, but I’m not hungry for waffles lately. The things I cook change over time because my habits change. Besides that, I’m an ingredients-driven cook, not a recipe driven cook. Danielle Steele is a recipe driven writer. She’s got as many customers as MacDonald’s, with her billions and billions served.
You have to eat. You don’t have to tell stories. That might be true, might not. I used to think artistic expression was an unnecessary luxury, but the existence of primitive cave paintings negates that. After our bellies are full, when we’re safe and warm in our shelters, we humans want to create. Draw. Paint. Dance. Tell stories. Of course Cave people told stories. The creative drive and the need to communicate are as compelling as the survival drive. Maybe that’s the charm of cooking, how it combines survival and creativity.
Is it the writing that makes it tough? Writing stories vs. telling stories? Yep, I’d say YES to that one. Telling a story from beginning to end is difficult, too, but writing is worse. The craft, it takes time, takes care. Like learning to sew only … no, it’s a lot like sewing, or cooking, or gardening. It works best when you have a plan.
