his last night at the apartment

A meal made out of convenience rarely nourishes the body with the nutrition that it needs. But it can provide a slew of comforts. Healthy or not, the process of preparing the needed appliances, gathering the ingredients, chopping or washing or soaking them, and cooking them can be all the soul needs to sloughing off heavy-heartedness and melancholy. Eating the meal, whether hastily or with grace, is secondary to all that it took to reach the point of enjoyment. Enjoyment, or maybe it is clarity, can be found, or conjured, in the long or short of the preparation.

Chaos is a countertop crowded with containers and uncooked things, or a frenzy of feelings encased in thoughts. Peace is placing them into delicate order. Gracefully appreciating the bitter and the sweet with the sour and the savory no matter the chaos that came before it.

scarfing down

For dinner tonight Jennie and I had BLT sandwiches, but she added sprouts to both of ours and I added slices of extra sharp cheddar. We sat and watched some silly horror film for some time, before we realized that the movie selection was poor.

When Jennie and I are home, we don't have any sort of fluid conversation. We mostly sit next to each other, either tuned into the television together silently, or she tuned into her iPad in addition to the tellie and me to the television alone or to text messaging. For some reason, texting brings me some amount of anxiety. Texts will sit as long as several days before I respond.

The single purchase out of today's grocery shopping that excites me most is the set of blueberries, which I promptly put into the freezer when we got back from the store. Smoothies are so much nicer when they feature a variety of colors, and I also like the tartness the berries add to the smoothie - complementing the sweetness of the strawberries and the texture and warmth of the bananas.

two chocolate cookies with a creme filling

A line of poetry
is a sensation on the tongue
the signal of a morsel to the brain
sometimes delicate
or a warm, heavy coat
the words lift off the tongue
a wistful ooh
while the crumb lingers in the cheek
a keepsake

A line of poetry
is a convulsion of the brain
the signal of a morsel
from mind to line
from self to script
words lifting, minds expanding
brains singing ooh
as folds deepen
a warm hug for a cavalry of children
a nourishment for their growth

pieces of a whole

There's a program on the Cooking Channel that I haven't yet watched but am intrigued by called Food Hospital. Emerging from the belief that many of our stubborn or chronic or life-threatening diseases are to do with a poor diet or from impure or downright inedible substances, the show's hosts attempt to disrupt and supplement the eating habits of the afflicted people they feature in each episode. A decidedly simple way of thinking and approaching food that also appears to be in line with a widening set of research. After pondering the kinds of diseases the show probably has or probably will be taking on, and after pondering my own diet over the years as well as those I love and observe, it really does boggle the mind how so many folks believe that the idiom "you are what you eat" is pure metaphor.

Just the same, I am in a process of removing or limiting the things that I consume in my non-eating habits that may be contributing to a number of "mental diseases" like boredom, overstimulation, paranoia, and complacency. It's a matter of balance, it's sometimes a matter of restraint, and other times it's a matter of absolute removal. So, because I'm not a watcher or even an admirer of football on any kind of basis, I've decided not to distract myself with this Super Bowl-stuff and am going to instead read a book and enjoy one well-made scripted show. And I'm going to enjoy it with a bowl of rice with some homemade chicken stew poured on top.

And, to be sure, this chicken stew is composed of ingredients carefully selected and which lend themselves to the delectable purity of the dish. Chicken thighs, carrots, onions, and celery caramelize and become fragrant. Vegetable stock adds a layer of flavor and de-glazes the pan. Mushrooms add an earthy unctuousness, tomato adds what becomes an invisible complexity and a bouquet of soft, sweet flesh, while Italian parsley and dill elevate the dish to a freshly, colorfully wholesomeness. Perfection in simplicity.  

comforts

The challenge of a good sauce is the same for all foods, at least for those who seek to master their cooking art, and that is to find an agreeable, harmonious balance of flavors. Complexity is achieved through the marriage of unique yet simple facets.

Soy sauce, honey, chili paste, and brown mustard would all be mixed rapidly, with intention, in a bowl when my dad used to make fried chicken, or when I adopted the recipe starting when I was in college. I might add in chopped garlic or something else, or maybe my dad did, but those four ingredients were all that was needed. We'd find other edible vessels for the sauce once the meal was over, and the further back you go and the younger we were then, the less expected these foods were. As kids, dipping raw broccoli into the sauce? A parent's dream!

I taught my roommate how to dredge today, using chunked chicken breast this afternoon. It was a giddy experience because I haven't fried anything in many months and wanted to get my hands dirty with some home-cooking. Three bowls: flour, egg, and bread crumbs. Left to right. I provided the necessary explanation as to why which did much in the way of etching itself into memory for him. I finished the cooking project solo but with supervision, and we crafted nearly a dozen chicken tenders that were appealingly browned and bite-sized. Not exactly chicken wings, but paired with a sweet and savory sauce of honey and brown mustard - exactly half of the soy sauce recipe my dad used to make - and it was delicious all the same.

hot water and crushed leaves, some honey, a large mug

“Drink your tea slowly and reverently, as if it is the axis on which the world earth revolves - slowly, evenly, without rushing toward the future.” 
― Thich Nhat Hanh

A stout, stained, silver utilitarian teapot sits on the stove as I sit on the couch at home thinking of all of the kinds of promises I want to keep with this blog. I've decided on just one: that each post must be written as I'm enjoying a meal, about to enjoy one, or after I've just appreciatively finished one. Food is significant to everyone, but only the still and the quiet notice its wonders. It is built into our clockwork routines, appearing often as snacks and meals, as social events and pleasures taken in solitude. A gentle whistle gives way to a harsh whirr and I know my tea is ready to be assembled. This blog will be written as a pathway and medium for reflection, one that I will patiently assemble as meals are, each meal itself a collection of moments fertile with ideas, sensations, emotions, and nourishment.  

I sip my peppermint tea, sweetened with an organic honey, and breathe deeply. My breaths are stopping at my belt, fastened just a little tightly, but I feel soothed. 

Only the well-written (and well-read) reap the benefits of language. A well-spoken sentence, a proper turn of phrase, an insight shared with another, are harvests of a bounty of sounds and concepts. A fresh, nutritious meal is a harvest of a season of hard work. It is with patience, zeal, and a sense of wonderment that I hope to take my nourishment - starting with this tea - and turn it into morsels of thought, empathy, activism, humor, achievement, tragedy, and, if I'm lucky, poetry. For us all to enjoy. 

 Sip sweetly, consume thoughtfully.