I’ve learned a lot from watching cooking shows. More than simply how to cook, that is. There are so many reasons I’m drawn to them. I enjoy watching people use their hands. Most especially to create or build or fix or heal. All four of which are a part of preparing a good meal.
Great chefs understand that cooking is soul work. Sure, there are some ornery bastards. Some colossal egos. Tempers flare. I’ve never known any creative area where these issues didn’t arise. More often, what amazes me about the community of chefs is the way they collaborate. And while they may be highly critical, most also seem willing to submit their own cooking to the same scrutiny.
Cooking is hard work; busy, relentless, and consuming. You have to maintain your health, keep your energy levels high, and commit your whole self to the process.
Master chefs have a devotion to growth, learning, experimentation, and change. They fail and head right back to the pantry. It seems that each of them had a devastating setback in their lives; a fire, cancer, bankruptcy, a second fire; and yet, they persist. In fact, most chefs mark these traumatic events, that might have taken the heart of others, as a catalyst for transformation. You could say that they discovered their unique genius only after, or because of, a personal catastrophe.
Lately, an acute attention and appreciation for the local environment play a key role in fine cuisine. I deeply admire the move to incorporate not only local farms and produce, but to explore and forage, with respect and restraint, our seas, meadows, and forests. The artistry with which they incorporate these natural elements is, often times, astonishing. It also strikes me as ancient and witchy.
Cooking is an intriguing mix of science, art, skill, and attention. An alchemy of the senses. But, a crucial, though often unnamed component of cooking is time. Time and I are often at odds. Usually this is when I am ruminating on the past, or anxious about the future, or freaking out because it is passing so doggone quickly. Never is this more apparent than when I try to make an egg. I know first hand why this is the magical test of most chefs. You have to have ALLLLL your shit together to prepare a proper egg. And then it is a focused dance for the following three minutes or so. Artists create egg dishes with effortless elegance and keep a tidy kitchen, to boot. Not so in my kitchen.
The Zen Buddhist nun, Jeong Kwan, uses time expertly in preparing her temple food. Kimchi is created and harvested precisely when most nutritious and delicious. She plans and prepares healing vegan meals according to the seasons and cycles of her temple surroundings. She then presents them with exquisite artistry. We could all learn from her generous, humble offering.
In one way or another, I see great chefs as examples of mindful living. They are beholden to the gifts bestowed in their home place and as interpreted through the work of their senses, imagination, and hands. This is a calling. A calling that all of us have the opportunity to answer and practice on a daily basis. We can demonstrate our love for others and this beautiful, bountiful world by cooking healthy, tasty, well planned and attentively prepared food.
Lucky Pilgrim 