The Delicious Bliss of Amateurism

My Dearest Aster,

I have always loved food. I am the type of person who can’t help but do a happy dance when they eat something particularly satisfying. Food is an integral part of my life, an essence that goes beyond mere nourishment and enjoyment. Most of my intensely happy memories involve the sense of taste in some capacity. (Even now, as I sit in my bed, huddled under a weighted blanket and battling a particularly annoying bout of crippling anxiety, I am comforted by the anticipation of a bratty takeout order on its way to me.)

My passion for cooking began when I was 14 or 15. As I grew into my teenage years, I started noticing that my family’s excitement about the holidays waned a bit because I was no longer a little kid, and the feeling of magic was a little harder to muster now. I refused to accept this, so I decided to take over the magic-creation in my household. I asked my parents to let me be fully in charge of Christmas dinner, from start to finish. I planned out the whole thing weeks in advance, looked up a bunch of recipes, organized a long shopping list. It was exhilarating. On the day of the dinner, I kicked my family out of the house and worked on the multi-course affair for hours. I attribute the success of that evening to beginner’s luck, but everything turned out perfectly. It really did feel like I managed to revive the holiday spirit through the power of food, and I was hooked for life.

Of course, I was nowhere near good at cooking until years later, but that Christmas dinner certainly planted the seed. I didn’t really care if I was good, actually — I just loved to experiment and learn everything I could about the culinary arts. The only reason I did not choose to become a chef was because I didn’t want to risk spoiling my love of cooking by making it a profession. But I did cook every chance I got.

I managed to cook meals in the Mr. Coffee in my freshman dorm room. I cooked for my roommates, for my family, for my friends. I loved both the creative and the giving aspects of cooking. At the beginning, I remember having great respect for precise recipes, but as I gained confidence and knowledge, they became more like guidelines for exploration and culinary play.

With the amount of fun I’ve been having in the kitchen all these years, it wasn’t until very recently that I actually realized that I am pretty decent at cooking. It’s been a very gradual acquisition of tiny skills and bits of knowledge that sum up to substantial expertise. I never feel myself an expert, by any means. In fact, this is another thing that I adore about cooking — there is always something new to learn and to master. The kitchen embraces a type of lifelong-novice-philosophy, I think. Because even the Gordon Ramsays of the world could still discover unexplored paths, techniques, and flavors. Culinary expertise isn’t linear, it isn’t a ladder one climbs. It is an ocean of deliciousness that is welcoming, forgiving, encouraging, and immensely rewarding.

Actually, writing this blog post has made me realize that my love of cooking is very much aligned with my approach to life. I am a lover of experiential learning, of inclusivity, of curiosity. I believe that if people ran their lives the way that an amateur cook navigates a kitchen, they would be infinitely happier, and the world would be a better place. Does that make any sense? Even if it doesn’t, I had a lot of fun trying to make it work. And that is the beauty of cooking, as well — the process is personal, and the results don’t matter nearly as much as we often are pressured to feel they do. I don’t even know if I answered the question, or if I went on a weird tangent, and there were certainly times throughout the writing process when I felt like this literary pie was irreversibly ruined. But in the end, it’s quite edible and actually gosh darn enjoyable, if I do say so myself.

Anyhooms, when can I cook for you again, and what would you like? You are, without a doubt, my favorite person to cook for — you know this.

Love,

Your Orchid

P.S. So, every time I face an emotional crisis of some sort, my instinct always compels me to run far, far, far away, start over from scratch in a place where nobody knows me. Ergo my love of solo travel and my interest in digital nomading. But then I realize that this decision — while feeling very exciting in the moment — would force me to abandon my family and friends, social networks I have spent years investing in and working on perfecting. This line of thought brings me to my two-parter question: what is your mental process when selecting and arranging the people you deem necessary in your life, and how do you feel about the prospect of starting over in a brand new social environment? What are the factors you look for in people? How do people come into your life? Does blood matter more? What are some things that could cause you to cast someone out? What are the events that could cause you to run and start over?

[Currently listening to “Chef” soundtrack!!! I swear I could watch this movie on repeat. And cook all the yums. And feel all the feels.]