When I cook, I do a minimal amount of prep. I enjoy the outcome, but don’t enjoy chopping, squeezing and opening. By the time I’ve tasted and put all the ingredients together, I sometimes lose my appetite. Honestly, I don’t how chefs ever sit down for a meal. The joy of the final product for me, is muddled in steps to finish.
However, there are times I enjoy the process, and they are with my friend Kathy. When we are cooking at her house, the work sings. Her husband is humming and I’m whistling while the “stew is simmering”. It’s a threesome who know their place in the kitchen.
There are some kitchens that are more suited to the prep than others. Her’s is one. With granite counters and surgically sharp knives, I don’t mind the effort for the reward.
Things that push up from the ground have colors unique to their region. Garlic from Georgia and onions from ‘your guess is as good as mine”. They attract me because the earth yields itself, and is willing to harvest. You need to close your eyes and taste; really taste. The flavors and textures paint themselves into the history of its birthplace.
Again, I am using Dr. Ph. Martin watercolors with satisfaction. They seem to have opened a creative crack that grows larger each time used.
Skinny-scenting, sensual and drums,
quiet times in memory,
touch my taste and odor;
beat my burns until they heat.
My trapper of felines whose legs part,
more and more, sensual in blue,
hot in black, nails dark,
at noon and half-past six.
Pull them tight, together; make them smoke.
Sunflower praying, heating up with
cooked-up fun – such sauce.
Breathe oil and grease; midday fun.
Barry Comer 1012 – Illustration 2015