Cooking makes me feel better. At least for the moment, and often for moments after.
When I was trying to list the times that I lost track of time, they all revolved around food. Well, food and slot machines, but that is another post, another day.
Not only do I lose track of time, but I forget that I hurt. I forget that I'm stressed, and tired, and that I've heard terrible heartbreaking stories of poverty, cruelty and pain all day.
The beautiful feeling of a well-made knife that is perfectly sharp, slicing through a raw onion.
The smell of frying said onion with garlic in olive oil.
Throwing in a little salt, a little special spice that I buy from an entire store dedicated to seasoning my habit.
Knowing, seemingly innately, what goes together. What flavors make other flavors actually taste better. Pairings as historic as Adam and Eve, Yin and Yang. Ginger and Sesame. Basil and Garlic. Tomato and Oregano. Lemon with Capers.
Expertly flipping the pain, feeling a sense of mastery and skill. Then throwing it all together on a plain and unassuming piece of cheap pottery, serving it to someone that I love and watching him enjoy the nurturing that I have literally served to him on a platter.
That makes me feel better. When I have little to give, I really enjoy making dinner.