At 5 o’clock, I have a glass of wine and wind down from my day.
I think about dinner. I have 3 binders full of my own recipes. And two shelves full of cookbooks that I rarely consult. And the internet with its countless recipes and variations. And many variations my head that I haven’t written down. I like to cook.
I’ve never met a recipe I didn’t want to tweak. That’s why I don’t bake. Baking is not forgiving of my experimentation. If baking is chemistry, cooking is alchemy. I am an alchemist.
I list on-hand ingredients in my head and let them simmer in my brain. I pull things out of the fridge and out of the cupboards. I start to chop, not knowing exactly what I’m making.
I stop chopping and run to my desk to capture a story idea that came to me like magic.
Back in the kitchen, flavors start to build. They smell delicious. And inspirational. I run to my computer again. And again.
Dinner is often delicious. Seldom inedible. But the stories that come to me while cooking are always indelible.