This one will be quick –
Sometimes, you have to lay back. And sometimes, I have to find an action to replace my thinking. However, as for laying back or trying to be calm, amongst the storm, as the say; I know this is not an easy task.
At least, not for me. My mind is easily drawn into troubled waters. It’s easy to think about the bad things or the bullshit. Of course, it is.
Sometimes, there’s no answer and that’s just the truth.
There’s nothing to do. And sometimes, all you can do is lay back or change the channel, so-to-speak, and switch the gears for a while. In my case, I look back to an old inspiration which came to me by a man, whom I have never met before. I know nothing about him in real life; however, he was there for me when life was at it’s hardest.
So, essentially, this is a very special thank you. Or better, this inspiration is a symbol of my appreciation which allows me to understand that there is beauty in this world, even in the ugliest times.
I have this inspiration which is linked to a memory as well as an ongoing thought of mine. But for this exercise, perhaps I should explain myself before going forward.
I live in a small apartment. There’s a bedroom, of course, and a little bathroom, which is good too. I have a small living room with a couch, a coffee table and a television to watch.
I have my trusty computer, which sits atop a small office table — a white one, that is, and the kitchen is small, and there’s not much room to move around. But I do okay.
Now, before I explain anything further, please understand that I am not a chef by any means. I’m sure there are several mistakes that I make in the kitchen. But this entry and my intention for explaining this has nothing to do with my cooking skills.
Not at all.
However, my Sunday’s are devoted to cooking my lunch for the week, which has become both my routine and somewhat healing, but cathartic as well.
The idea came from a novel I read while my Old Man was in the hospital. The Author is one of my favorite. His name is Robert Fulghum. And yes, while he’s never met me and I don’t know him in real life, I can say that this man is another hero of mine.
Either way, I was reading about how Fulghum was thinking about some of his wishes.
He wrote about people who he wished he could see or people who he could sit down and eat lunch with.
I have these ideas too. I have a list of people who I’d love to sit and talk with.
But there’s more.
I read about a day that Fulghum would like to relive, exactly as it was, without changing anything.
I can’t say that I have a lot of days. But I can say that whether I have many of them or only a few, I do have moments in my life that, if I could, I would like to revisit them, and relive them, exactly as they were, and without changing a thing.
I offer this now as a personal victory because I didn’t have these memories when I read Fulghum’s book for the first time. Then again, I was only 17 years old. I was only a kid and new to the world and more, I was new to a different life. I was slowly escaping a world of trouble and learning to redefine myself as well as redesign my life to live or to become a better human being.
Now, go back to the idea of me in my little apartment. Try and get a visual, if you can. Don’t worry about the way my place looks. Just use your imagination, and I promise you’ll be able to see me.
I go back to Fulghum because there was another chapter where he talked about a day when he was alone. He wrote about playing music and cooking his favorite dish for himself. His was chicken fried steak, if I’m not mistaken.
I’m not opposed to chicken friend steak at all, but my cooking style is a little different. But not by much.
I’ve always loved this idea.
I loved the thought about putting the world on hold and just letting myself lay back, so-to-speak, and replacing my worries with the nourishment of food.
Hence, Sundays have become this type of day for me.
Whether I cook well or not, or whether I am chef-ready or if any of my dishes would do well in a competition, remains to be seen. However, this is not my purpose.
I suppose I’m looking more for a shot at emotional redemption or perhaps a semblance of serenity and a moment of peace.
I’m not trying to win an award. I’m not looking to impress anyone either. In fact, my aim is to feed myself; but more, I notice there is something healing that takes place when I start to cook.
I prepare everything myself. I don’t cheat. I don’t use anyone’s sauce or anything like that.
I make everything from scratch, which is healing to me.
I make different dishes for different reasons and mainly, my purpose is to be sure that I eat well during the week.
But also, I allow myself to slip into the process.
I allow myself to pay attention to my own recipe, which is never really the same. I allow myself to get lost in the ingredients instead of overthinking or worrying, or spending too much time thinking about the problems which are out of my control.
I let the music play, which is helpful.
This becomes so that I find myself singing along, and probably much louder than if anyone else was around me because, in all honesty, I do not have what one would call an excellent singing voice.
But in all fairness, I don’t think the bone-in chicken thighs seem to mind.
My sauteed spinach and broccoli rabe never complain. And neither does the garlic, which I tend to use a great deal of.
I don’t think the spices care if I sing out of key, and aside from my little friend (AKA: Little Chicken my quaker parrot) I don’t think my singing is too insulting.
In fact, Little Chicken likes to dance along—and he screams a little too loud, but then again, I’m probably singing too loud,—so there we are. I’m singing and the bird is screaming.
The food is cooking and the house smells like a good meal.
I can’t fix the world and can’t change the aftermath of what took place.
I can’t make anyone see things the same as I do and I can’t make anyone feel better or comfortable, and I can’t change where people are in their life.
I can’t make someone want me or love me, and somehow, the world knows this, which is why surprises happen and suddenly, everything seems to work out right.
I can’t do much, sometimes.
All I can do on a Sunday morning, is cook and clean up, and taste my food and share with the people who I care for.
Again, I’m not sure how good I am. At least, I’m not sure how good I am as far as cooking goes. But for the record, I brought a plate with me for my 4:00 class with my Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu professor.
I told him the dish might be a little spicy, which it is — but not too bad.
(At least not to me.)
And no, nothing is better, per se. The problems at hand are still involved with me now, and the changes I need are slow-moving, at best.
At least, this is how things are for the moment.
At least, I know . . .
I know who loves me, who cares, and I understand who is there for me—and who isn’t.
Everything else, is just out of my hands . . .
The Written Addiction 