Art is an egotistical form of expression. At least I feel like it is for me. My Puritan roots create such a conflict of interest between me and my art. This is probably why I have both stopped writing and taking photographs. For me, my art is not complete with out the admiration of an audience and an audience has the power to break me down. I haven't been feeling very strong nor very confident and the thought of putting myself in the windfall of criticism is a daunting challenge that I not sure I'm really up to.
Creating art with food, however, has become my passion. I can grasp the hull of my knife and create the maximum meditation as I dice through an onion or whisk through a sauce or taste the fruits of my labor and creativity. I can close my eyes and drink in the smell, allowing the taste to devour my tongue, tingling the appropriate taste buds until it reaches the final destination. I can pour over cookbooks and cooking resources and newsletters and websites. I can negate my very existence to choosing the perfect ingredients and carefully planning my menu delegating old standbys to work in between exciting opportunities of decadence virgin and unpracticed.
Endorphins are released at the thought of a trip to the bulk bin aisle of my organic grocer. My CSA box arrives at my door and I can hardly wait to get out of bed and lay the contents on my counter. For me, Christmas comes every other Tuesday and really, I can't think of a Christmas that can compare with my CSA boxes.
My politics rest on fresh and local and I follow the teachings of the venerable Michael Pollan, resting on his every word and secretly longing for more intuition and at the least, the ability to apply what he knows to my life.
Outside of my kitchen the only thing that comes close to making me as happy is my garden. Small and potted my array of fruit, vegetables and herbs is the most beautiful garden I think I could have created in my outdoor space.
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