What I’d sensed as a large failure upon one of my first high heat cooking endeavors, seared bits
securely clinging to the inner section of my cast iron pan, near scorched at the verge of burning into a state irretrievably beyond bitter, sour, salty or sweet- I salvaged.
With a splash of beef stock I had been simmering on the back burner and vigorous stirrings with a slotted and flat edged wooden spoon, salvation and discovery began.
The burned chips, flakes and flecks liquefied into a glaze born of incertitude and recalling this evening years later at the very same table, however set for two this night candles ablaze within the
presence of beautiful company, I recall the decision I made that very night years earlier with a table set for one.
It was then I vowed to make a meal each day from scratch, to make of solitary tedium a spiritual practice, beginning with the overture of chopping and dicing into the cabaletta of
saute and simmer. Watching you raise the piping hot creation, pressing it fast against your lips for a quick moments respire before taking nourishment there.
I learned to savor loss, to find beauty in the death of the raw ingredient as it lead me to understanding salvation.
Tonight I once again roll my tongue around and around recalling my day of cooking salvation. I hold it tight in my mouth and in my mind, the irony of it.