I find myself often wanting to write about cooking, specifically the sometimes crazy, sometimes pedestrian concoctions I make. I think in many ways that is because when I stop my writing it is often to cook, and I find that my mind tends to blend my enthusiasms in such a way that if I’m excited about what I’m writing, and then go start cooking something I enjoy, I suddenly get excited about writing about my cooking. I refrain because, well, I’m really not that spectacular a chef, and there’s no need for yet another blog out there about “what I had for lunch.”
(For the record, because I know someone will ask, today it was edemame with sea salt while I waited for whole grain short pasta. I put a sort of ketchupy sauce on the pasta that I made last night for my meatballs and cabbage, which I had expanded from the homemade ketchup I made the night before for our burgers. It was mostly tomato paste and Worcestershire sauce, with some sweeteners, cider vinegar, and water, boiled down a little. I added fresh thyme and oregano, and goat cheese. Yum!)
But today I found myself thinking that it might also have something to do with those processes of Boice’s that I already do, particularly the “prewriting” stuff. In his book it’s clear that he’s found a lot of resistance to these methods which include things like outlining before you really know what you want to say exactly, or “mindful freewriting” in which you focus on some aspect of what you want to say and ruminate on it in on paper (or screen). Another one, which people have a lot of difficulty with he says, is pausing frequently to reflect in non-verbal ways. For me these are all fundamental parts of writing and I would have difficulty getting anywhere without them (although he is certainly giving me ideas on how to improve them and make them into more regular activities).
The resistance that people have to these processes, he suggests, is in trusting that doing what feels like non-productive work will actually lead to product. And this is where I realized that cooking and writing has, perhaps, a more fundamental connection for me than simple proximity.
When I was a child, my mother felt like I needed an outlet, a place where I could be free to pursue ideas and express myself without much input from adults. And due to various contextual constraints, she decided that that place would be the kitchen. She gave me free reign. At 7 I baked a cake (from a Disney cookbook, and with some help from her). At 8 I told her that I wanted to make cookies, but I didn’t need a recipe. She shrugged her shoulders and let me be. The bizarre, yellow, rubbery, not-very-sweet raison cookies went in the cooky jar and we ate them happily, not because she made me live with my mistakes but because we all agreed that despite not having much resemblance to “cookies,” we enjoyed them anyway.
Thus began a lifetime of creative experiments in the kitchen. I’ve developed a knack for soup (and I have a gift for pastry) although I have never quite mastered cookies (gingerbread being the exception).
So what does all this have to do with writing, anyway? Well, today mixing my odd little sauce into my pasta, I realized that what my mother taught me by assisting and allowing my kitchen explorations was that there are great rewards in taking creative risks; that when something doesn’t turn out how you expected, it isn’t always bad, and when it is bad, it’s not an ego-shattering disaster, its just a slightly annoying learning experience. And so I am fully prepared to make that leap of faith that says that seemingly non-productive work will result in a workable product. And I look forward to the process.
Thanks, Mom.
Filed under: writing Daily-Living
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