Macaroni and Moral Dilemas

As I lifted my baked macaroni and cheese from the oven at 8:25 p.m., I had a realization. It had happened again: instead of working at my computer, I found myself in the kitchen. As on previous occasions, I had driven home with great ambitions for writing and research. Yet there I was, with hands coated in flour and carrot peels. My evening’s research consisted of comparing recipes for zucchini bread. It was time well spent.

If you crave inspiration, step into the kitchen. The act of cooking and baking engages every sense. I love the aroma of vanilla as it pours into my teaspoon. I love to chop walnuts with a butcher knife, rocking the blade under my hands and listening to the meaty crunch of the kernels. I love the burbling from a pot of cooking pasta and the firmness of an al dente noodle. The list is endless.

Cooks cannot disguise their personality in the kitchen, as much as they might try. On Sunday, I felt like Martha Stewart, sporting a fancy dress and cardigan as I spooned gingerbread batter into a pan. But my true kitchen self shone on Monday as I crushed whole peeled tomatoes for eggplant parmesan. Though I used a deep bowl, I sprayed tomato innards on the counter, on the shelf, on myself. And thus my artistic temperament blazed forth.

This how I work:  Sugar and salt spill on countertops. Measuring cups tumble. Mixing bowls slides dangerously toward the counter’s edge as I stir their contents. Stove burners remain lit until someone walks into the kitchen and says, “Why does it smell like gas?” or, by God’s grace, I remember to turn them off.

I enjoy tactile experiences so I treasure the art of food preparation, which engages both mind and body. The mind constantly asks, “What’s next?” while the body deftly performs its tasks. The micro-decisions are blissful for the control freak: Shall I blend the sugars first or measure the dry ingredients? Shall I slide all cookie sheets at once, or shall I put them in as I fill them? I love to make each decision and to take action by chopping, stirring, peeling, grating, and more. The activities flow together as steps in a dance. This evening, I blanched tomatoes while making a salad and grating cheese for the casserole. As I progressed, the dishes piled in the sink and the leftover cheese crumbles were joined by tomato stems, zucchini peels, and carrot tops. The counter looked like a Cinco de Mayo celebration.

After this descent into chaos, I relished the clean-up process, which I happily call “the fight for order.” This behavior veers into compulsion when I decide to help other people to clean up as they are cooking. I throw out their garbage and put away all extraneous supplies even if they haven’t finished using them. Unfortunately, they don’t understand the connection between a cleansed counter and a cleansed mind, and so they interrogate me with comments like, “Where’s the milk? Did you put away the butter? I was using that dish!” Catharsis is highly underrated these days.

The kitchen also provides practical and moral instruction. Last month, a disastrous baking experience affirmed this truth. As I searched for oatmeal muffin recipes, my good sense told me to follow a proven recipe. Yet I was swayed by my inner health nut, who pointed me toward a recipe with whole wheat flour and olive oil. Then I stumbled into a dilemma. I lacked baking powder, and I would have to take a five-minute trip to the store to get it. After consideration, I caved to my desire for quick results: I used an equal amount of baking soda. Oh, the folly. Though the dried cherries provided an oasis of sweetness, they could not compensate for a dense desert of wheat flour and olive oil. When I shared a muffin with a friend, she nearly choked. In thriftiness and stubbornness, I ate every last muffin.

This evening, I almost caved to temptation again. The zucchini bread recipe called for cinnamon, but I had only allspice. As I started to write this post, I weighed the situation. The cry of instant gratification was drowning out the whispers for patience. So I picked up my phone and listened to the voice of conscience: my mother. She told me, “Go to the store.” No arguments permitted. My prepared ingredients will have to wait until tomorrow. This moral victory will yield greater patience for me and better bread for everyone else. I hope that my mother and Martha Stewart–I pour through her magazines with a mixture of cynicism and awe–will be proud.

Though I hesitate to admit it, the beauty of baking and cooking provides a compelling argument for domesticity. After all, art deserves an audience, and I’m convinced that food is another language of love. But I neither have my own family yet, nor am I a gourmet chef. My dishes resemble experiments rather than pieces de resistance (forgive my lack of accents). Fortunately, the kitchen is a delightful studio in which to learn. And as I learn, check the burners for me, won’t you?