My earliest memory of cooking for others is from when I was about 10 years old. It was Passover, my mom was having company, and she was sick.
I dispatched to the kitchen with her instructions for how to mix the spice rub for a roast chicken. I executed my tasks well, and a budding amateur chef was born.
Cooking for others has long been a task of joy and love, a physical manifestation of my calling to care.
Cooking for myself, however, has been a different game. It tends to feel more utilitarian. Just another chore in the game of life admin tasks. Things we need to do to survive.
Usually to cook for myself I need to fire up a playlist to gear up my motivation.
Lately, however, I’ve found myself drawn to the meditative aspect of cooking in silence.
There’s something deeply soothing about the simple sounds—the knife against the cutting board as I chop vegetables, the quiet hum of the oven, the crackling of vegetables in the sauté pan — that is deeply soothing.
From the moment I set up my mis-en-place to the time I dry the final dish, each step of the process becomes a moment of loving attention, nourishing and nurturing not just the food, but my spirit.
The methodical actions of chopping, stirring, washing, and drying allow me to be with my myriad thoughts without getting lost in them.
It’s a constructive form of self-soothing, a way to create something with my hands while being fully present in my body.
I’ve also discovered a bonus:
Whether I’m meal prepping for the week or cooking dinner for now, this act of loving attention reminds me that I’m deserving of the same nurturing and nourishment that I give to others through the labor of my love and devotion.
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