In the Messy Corners of my Mind

Shame on me.

I didn't think. Hell, I don't think.
When I cook, I cook. I shove recipes aside. I heed no directions and instructional messages - helpful or otherwise, from good sources or not. I step into the kitchen, close my eyes as I tie my apron on, and feel. I mix whatever smells good and looks good to me. I pound and slice and mix some more.
And I know that the taste is just a bonus. It's the exhilaration I feel when I'm cooking that gets me going. The thrill. The adventure of looking through the cupboards and the fridge and just finding something interesting there. Interestingly mundane, maybe. But still interesting.
I love cooking. I love how it makes me "me".

I just won't think about it.

And I'd just go on. Mixing and slicing and pounding. Doing what I love best. I don't measure the salt as I go. I don't stick to exact lines and grams. I just laugh it off and hope for the best.
The dishes all contain a little of me - and I'm not talking about gross unsanitary things. I put myself into whatever I make - and yes, even if they don't really taste good in the end. That's exactly me.
So even if you find the meat a bit raw or the soup too bland, they contain my heart just the same. I never would have made them voluntarily, willingly, knowingly, if my heart wasn't in them.

It won't happen again.

I said I will give up cooking. That I will never ever cook a single dish again.
That was a lie.
How can I give up doing something which has become a part of me? Even, say for example, it was only my first time to cook yesterday, giving it up would be ultimately difficult. I'm counting months, days, minutes, of just being drawn to the kitchen, to the art of cooking. I am no artist but I feel like one when I'm in that zone.
Say, for months, days, minutes, I've wondered how it would feel like to step into the kitchen I've been dreaming of for years, and for almost every second thereof. I could not NOT want to visit it again and cook there again. I would. And I would want to spend every Sunday of my life in that kitchen. I would still want to cook and cook and cook some more.
Yes, even if I had already said that it won't happen again.

Soft as marshmallow, sweet as melon. Passionate as red wine.

What's with food and drinks? Unlike most women, I love to eat and I let myself eat. Of course, on a good day, I'd say no politely. At first. And then give in after a moment's insistence. It's a human weakness: hunger, thirst, they say. For a long time, I believed them.
But when I come across the most festive meal of my life, as yet, I can never view hunger and thirst as weaknesses or liabilities. I welcome them. I embrace them and let the longing encapsulate me. I fight against each pang of hunger, thinking about the calories and the hours on the treadmill. I resist the sway of liqueur, reminding myself that driving under the influence shall make my insurers not liable for any damage or loss whatsoever in case of an accident.
But then I go and take the first bite - not because I am human and, therefore, weak, but because I want to. And after the first bite, resistance will no longer be possible, especially when the first bite proves me right about this being the most festive and delicious meal I have had. As yet.
I don't blame the food decors and arrangements nor the chef. I take all the credit for having my fill. I'd like some more, but that would be gluttony.

And I know I have got to wait and work my ass off to slim down. I can't be greedy. I can't be selfish. Cooks should never be greedy and selfish and I want to be a good cook.

So this is how it feels to be home. Home away from home.

And I want to stay in this kitchen forever.