Cook Time

It’s no hidden secret I love food. The way it grows, looks, acts, tastes. The way it brings people together.

When I find myself home alone for the evening I often times cook myself a good meal. When I slide my heavy dish into the oven with my sauce and spice covered hands, I take my cook time to meditate.

There is something special about the kitchen floor. Ever since I was a child, it’s been one of the most comfortable spots for me. The kitchen is the heart of a home, and the floor connects me to that heart in a physical way.

The light is on, and I sit in front of the oven to check the beginning stages of my warming meal. My forehead connects to the oven handle and I focus in on the illuminated silhouette of stuffed peppers, roast, leavened bread, anything.

Steaming, rising, browning, and bubbling, the process of cooking is beautiful. Changing food from its original form into something completely new. The simple power of heat.

I sit, mind absent of thought, looking for the first signs of change, the first faint smells. The gentile progression. 

The time comes, that small window of golden perfection. The house smells of goodness and I take out the new creation that chemistry and love has played. I nourish my body.

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