Giving thanks for a quiet kitchen


Giving thanks for a quiet kitchen

Cooking can be meditative and sensuous. At Thanksgiving cranberry sauce is always how I start. Listening to the berries and they plop into the colander for rinsing, then the ding as they hit the pan. The shoosh of the sugar as it rains down on top of them, then the plurps as they warm and pop.

Cranberries Orange Rosemary

Cranberries Orange Rosemary

The kitchen is usually quiet with classical music or jazz playing in the background, perhaps a glass of wine near my hand. It’s just me, no one to rush things. I start the pie, measuring out each ingredient and placing each in a beautiful vessel for a group photo before for the mixing begins.

Pumpkin pie ingredients

The group photo, ready for pie

Pouring creme is immeasurably satisfying.

I find I need to do this a the right time of day. The light changes so quickly from day to day in the winter. The sharp angles of bright sunlight can become blinding at points. But when it is right, it makes the whole experience more beautiful. The careful chopping and measuring as the light streams in, illuminating simple things as if they were in a cathedral and somehow made holy.

Cooking can be so sacred, nurturing the spirit and soul even before you take a bite (although I usually do…testing you know, with an only slightly guilty smile).

Tomorrow the tone will change, it will be more upbeat and busy, multiple scents mixing in the air with a full oven and stove bubbling away. But for now I give thanks for a quiet kitchen.

I hope your holiday was delicious and joyful.  Join us again, when I promise to talk more about wine.

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Robin Renken
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