I think often of that Sylvia Plath bit.
About making choices and those damn figs. You know the one.
Well, I sit here in this space, again.
Not due to choices or regret — but the weight of knowing which figs are nearing their fall and the ones that have yet to bloom.
When I am sad — with the things I have in front of me — I think about how lucky I am to have cooking. I suppose I have writing too. But let me know tell you about this thing that I have.
The first thing that brought me back when the Earth cracked beneath me was chopping onions for a dish I’d be serving later that evening.
You see, food is reliable in my eyes. I know that I can add another egg to make something fluffier. I know I can leave a steak in a hot pan to get that crust I love so much or reduce a stock to make a sauce.
I know butter makes mostly everything taste better.
I know that I can dissolve into a recipe like the salt itself.
And I know that when I set it on the table in front of someone, it is generally good.
When I feel my raw self, cooking brings me back. And God do I put so much into it.
Attraction is funny. And moving from there is tricky. People are tricky and mysterious and flaky And I am one of them. Though I am not good at being mysterious these days. I will say that I am guilty of trying to be too cool. I think it’s called being single, though I’m not sure.
In my head, I just say, “F*ck this, F*ck this — just cook and mop and be a good chef, dude” and move on.
I am just soft enough though to know that I will still put so much trust and hope in people. I will still allow myself and others grace. I will still work so hard at communicating in a way that I hope comes off as helpful, rather than making things more difficult to navigate (than they already are.)
Relationships with people, in my specific circumstance, are tricky. I am just all sorts of vulnerable by nature and at times can just be plain awful to myself. I feel awful for making people feel awful.
So, I’ll go home and cook.
I will fill my cup with forgiveness because again, I have no idea what I’m doing.
I will throw another tablespoon of butter in the pan because it needs it. Hell, I need it.
Cooking, regardless of the many things I’ve messed up, always brings me back to myself and that I truly love it. Creating. Consuming.
And having it consume me.
To be honest, that’s how I’ve always looked at cooking. I let it consume me. Sometimes beat me down to a pulp. Sometimes eat something so good I wish I had someone across from me to share it with. I have wept more times at a stove then I care to admit.
Not so much from over-salting the eggs, but because somehow I still have a way to care for myself and others. That makes me feel very lucky.
Relationships are just plain tough. Nitty gritty hurtful stuff. Also full of love and pleasure and sustenance. I am full of all these things.
The figs.
Well, some have fallen and rotted away. Others are getting ripe and some have yet to bud — but I am okay in this space, right now. Because deep in the belly of the tree I do love myself and can feel okay when things are a bit wonky.
I know that when I wake up the next morning, it is a bit holy for me. Like maybe something got washed away in the great depth.
That, I am thankful for.
And for you. And you. And you.
And for my pots and pans and heat and pressure and time.
I am always thankful for you.
On the Coast of North Carolina large fig trees are common. My grandmother had one so we always had fig preserves and everything else with figs! Yummy!
Reading this, Josh, is a sizzling, stewing, braising, boiling, baking, exploring slowly in the mouth savory sweet experience. The words, the perfectly fresh ingredients. Yum!
Jana
Figs have been a favorite of mine since childhood. Ya, know, Josh, if you ever feel inclined to come to Virginia, there would be a spot for you in the kitchen of my B&B. 🙂 Who knows, maybe we could make that dream happen together.
You take care, now.
C