I walk into the kitchen and feel the spin begin: the veggie bin holds items that “need eating.” I sweep across the counter tops and the peeling and rinsing and chopping begin. Mounds of veggie bits dive into the liquid on the stove. The food processor jumps up on the counter in anticipation of a future puree, sorry once again that tit missed the call to chop. Why do I always forget? In the meantime, three apples get crunched and tossed with berries and granola to make a baked sweet-thing.
No, I never decided to make soup and an apple crisp today—far from it. I probably had different goals entirely—or I should have. Rarely do I decide to make something, select a recipe, shop for it, set aside time to make it and then follow through. No, the urge to cook comes from a glance into the excesses of my fridge, or some confab of the desires to rescue, avoid work, and listen to the radio.
All of a sudden, a whirling energy spins me into a chopping-blending-cooking-creating-store-housing machine. I fill plastic tubs and containers rescued from all manner of store-bought content. Something has pushed the “Dervish” setting on the miracle-Miriam kitchen appliance.
It’s usually these easy, homely dishes that sweep me up—soup, fruit crisp, chicken parts, stew, meat to marinate. And it’s usually more than one course at a time, although it’s unlikely they make it to the same meal. Occasionally I find this groove for a specific evening’s meal or potluck prep. I have at times tried to impose reason, thinking, planning, plotting into the process. But I have learned—it’s best if I simply narrow my eyes to small slits, check my conscious mind with NPR’s ubiquitous voices, and cruise to the quick rhythm in my core. I produce quickly and deliciously. I am released, both exhausted and refreshed, when all the little containers are sealed, stacked and placed in the fridge. I love the spurting, unplanned explosion and orderly resolution. Dervish is my happy kitchen mode.
I will marvel: why am I doing this? When did I decide to cook? Now? How did I know the order of operations? Do I really need this food? Never-me mind. The food will be eaten. It must scratch some sort of itch. Fruit crisp, anyone?