I took an early drive this morning to clear my head. Then again my head was heavy and my sinuses were not too kind to me. So, I was up early.
I was on the road but the rain came suddenly and fell so hard that the rainfall interrupted my attempt to make a conscious contact with God as I understand him.
Sure.
I pray.
Why not?
What’s the harm?
If anything, I see prayer as an action, or more, I see this as a method which helps my awareness because even if no one is out there and there is no God to care or listen, what’s the harm in voicing my needs and claiming my humility to gain a better life?
I have no problem with the rain. I never minded the gray days or the tired sleepiness I feel on Sunday afternoons after the storms hit the town.
I never seemed to mind when the rain falls heavily and there’s nothing to do except eat a good meal and watch a movie on television.
I think Chinese food and watching old movies on a rainy day is a great thing top do.
But that’s just me.
And so, I am open to suggestions.
If you have one
I have this thing about Sundays.
I have this thing about disconnecting from the rest of the world and turning on music. And do not get me wrong, the music I choose means everything.
The music is as important as pairing wine with your meal. Not that I drink wine or any sort of alcohol at all. But sill, I find the analogy is a good working comparison.
The music I choose while I cook is important because the songs I choose have the right to dictate my momentum and determine the mood. Not to mention, the music has the right to dictate how I dance through my apartment for the rest of the afternoon.
And I say this with a touch of insecure notion and yes, my male ego wants to defend me because the old me would never admit to these things because the old me still needs to be tough.
But I am not tough and nor do I need to be
At least, not on Sundays,.
For the record:
I am far from a chef and perhaps I am even further from the ranks of being a good cook. However, Sundays are usually my days to cook for the week and therefore, I have to feel for my downstairs neighbors. I feel for them because I know my volume is not low. and too, I have to feel for anyone who either remains uninvited and smells the spices from my kitchen or hears me sing along to music with a voice that is out of key.
I ain’t pretty . . .
I ain’t a singer.
I’m just a crazy kid at 54 years of age who aspires to feel something good on a Sunday afternoon
And so
I have an interest in making this thing called Sunday Gravy. And maybe I lack the ethnic background to weigh in on this and perhaps I should be careful because depending upon the family-type or connections with Italy, some call this gravy and some call this sauce.
And I . . .
I could not care less.
I call this all a way to feel better.
I all this a way to heal/
I see this entire process as cathartic because if food is love and the body needs food to move, grow, and work; then let me love me to the best of my ability and eat well and be happy.
I don’t want to die fat and unhealthy.
But I do love a good meal.
And so, I go on
Perhaps there needs to be more background for you to understand what this means to me.
I never had a perfect day that I would relive, exactly the same or exactly as it was, without looking back and wishing that I could change one or two things.
I never had a day that I would like to relive, as it was.
No changes.
No alterations.
No wishing I could go back and relive something.
No, I never had a day that was perfectly perfect and just fine as it was.
I always wished for more of something
And yet, I never saw, felt, or understood the contents of something being perfect or just enough.
Robert Fulghum wrote about a day when he made himself chicken fried steak.
I viewed that as an inspiration for me to make my own day.
I remember reading about this and wondering what this would be like, a day alone, just for me, and not giving in to distractions or outside interruptions.
No one around.
No one to influence or impose or change the mood.
No . . .
the only thing around to influence me is the music I choose and the food I cook and the results of a good meal.
My meal . . .
cooked for me, by me, and in the end, I would be grateful that I ate every last piece to fall asleep fat and happy.
I have had to learn to reshape my life.
I have had to adjust to my surroundings, which have changed.
I have had to adjust to the loss of love, the loss of money, the gain of composure and the changing of my ways.
So . . .
I like to cook on Sundays
Of course, there is always someone out there who has an opinion. There are people who have told me that the way I cook is wrong or the method to my madness does not work.
I say this to prewarn and advise that some steps are missed and some options are not captured in this journal entry because this is not about the meal but more; this is about the process itself.
I made a bowl of pastina to which, I was told that no . . .
My way is not the right way and therefore, I cannot call it pastina.
“I says pastina on the box.”
“But that’s not real pastina,” I was told.
“It tasted really good to me!”
and so, what else matters?
I respectfully decline the questions and the “right or wrong” motto.
I am not here for a people-pleasing contest and nor am I here to satisfy or heal anyone else.
I will never look to do a cooking show or compete for a chef position.
Either way –
I have a big pot . . .
The pot is empty at the moment. And yet, I am thinking about the way I could bring the heat up and sear some different meats, like, say, some pork chops on the bone and some hot, sweet and mild sausages, maybe some braciola.
I never made a real meatball, which I would love to try take a swing at this
I like the idea that the process for Sunday gravy (or sauce) takes all day.
I like the idea of starting from scratch.
I like the mindless appeal that I might find as I lose myself in the preparation and the ingredients.
No thoughts about the work which is waiting for me when I arrive o Monday.
I do not have to think about the divorce gods and the lawyer Nazis or their bills which come every so often and how bill collectors act like the mob and come for their interest with deal-makers and leg-breakers who try and make offers which we cannot refuse.
I do not have to think about any of this.
I can lose myself in this process and feel the victory that comes when the smells from my kitchen satisfy the receptors of a hungry kid, waiting to lick the spoon.
After the braciola is fried and the grease from the meats and the sausages are brown, I remove them for the time being and pull off my trick. I use the juices from the bottom of the pot and mix them with some onions and chopped garlic.
I could deglaze the bottom of the pot with a little red wine too.
The bits and pieces from the bottom of the pot and the juice from searing the meats and sausage are enough to aromatize the kitchen, if not my apartment.
But rest assured –
The music has to be good.
I think I would go with some of my older classics from a kinder time in my younger life.
Chicago is a good one.
Van Morrison helps
Billy Joel always works.
By the way, I talk to myself while I cook.
I act like I’m talking to someone.
Well . . . the person I speak with is truly the love of my life.
She is beautiful, which of course – you should already know because she is you and you are her.
I explain that I do this and I understand how this may seem sad. But no.
I speak like she is here; only, she is not around to speak to, so, I act as if she is with me to keep me company and fulfill my fantasy of her being my wife.
I will never marry anyone else (again)
I will never love another
So, I wait.
I live
I try
but ow is now
and for now, I have food on the stove
So …
The huge cans of peeled tomatoes, tomato paste, sauce, and tomato puree are ready for me. And again, I am sure there are critics who would jump at me here and tell me how I am all wrong.
Add basil here
put the meatballs in before or after . . .
I have no argument with the so-called know-it-all home chefs.
They have their way for sure.
But guess what?
This ain’t their Sunday afternoon kitchen and they are not welcome to sit and eat with me either.
So, excuse the language
but –
Fuck’em!
Everything about this is more about the effort.
None of this is about my way or the right way.
All of this is an action to which I say, replace thoughts with actions and perhaps we can change the value of our emotional content.
This is my goal.
I need to make efforts to change me and my emotional content, by any means necessary.
I don’t care if I am right or wrong.
I don’t care if my cooking does not appeal to anyone else.
No.
I care about the value of my emotional content.
I care about losing myself to a process that is feeding and nurturing.
I care about the love and the intention I share when I cook a meal, even if I only cook for myself/
I care about the way I sauté my chopped onions and garlic.
I care about the seasonings and the ingredients.
I never use bay leaves, by the way . . .
I know they make all the difference. But I never use them.
I have all my fresh basil, fresh Italian parsley.
And I go as I go and I do as I do.
I don’t have to care about anything else.
I care about how I sauté the chopped onions and garlic before I deglaze the pan.
I care about making sure I add enough sugar to kill the acid from the tomatoes but not too much that the sauce becomes too sweet.
I am a ravioli fan.
I am a ziti fan
I love tortellini.
I love adding cheeses like pecorino, parmesan, Romano, or some ricotta
And so –
I am sure that I would love the way bits of meat separate and migrate into the sauce.
Or gravy . . . depending upon the Italian background.
(and that feud continues without me)
I am sure that after I fry the meatballs a little bit and then add them to the sauce; I am sure that all of this will be perfect.
None of this matters, per se.
None of this is done to impress anyone or to be impressive enough that I create a position for myself as a food critic or anything of the sort.
No.
What matter is the effort
What matters is the way I distract my lonely thinking and occupy my thoughts.
I replaced thoughts with action and with the benefit of a good and well cooked meal.
The food critics and the Italian recipe Nazis can all go shit.
The rain was heavy this morning.
I was on the road early.
I was up before Sunday was awake enough to notice the streets were flooded.
I sought to improve my conscious contact with God as I understand him and so, the rai hit and I had to pull over because my windshield looked as if someone dumped buckets over my car while I was driving.
I am not sure what the menu will be.
And I am not sure if my emotional content is at a good level or if my sadness seems to match the gray sky.
But no matter what, I have to realize the benefits of being in the effort business because above all things; I have no control over the results –
Except for when it comes to my sauce.
I am the master in my kitchen
If this were not so, would I tell you about this and say how I have come to create a plate for you?
Eat well.
Love at your best
Sleep softly
And remember –
I love you all
always
and don’t worry
I always save a plate of food
for you
para seimpre
The Written Addiction 