A Philosophy of Food
On Life's Darker Moments
Maximus was up late last night, eating toast and wondering what was going on in the world. So Nick and I spent about an hour explaining politics, why we can’t change his teacher’s rules, and why it’s so very important to see Christ in every single person. Then Nick and I stayed up talking for another hour, trying to figure out what to do about the kids concerns. Somehow we got around to the subject of why I don’t cook much anymore.
Twelve years ago I was a chef in a fancy restaurant in a little hippy college town. The town may have been small but it was a big tourist destination. People would come from all the big cities to see the controversial plays that the hippy college kids would put on, to get the small town country experience, and to watch the trees change color in the fall. It was my dream job. I loved it.
Then everything went to hell.
My boss quit. Then one of the most beloved employees committed suicide. Finally, the entire staff walked out in one day.
It was just me, one dishwasher, and one waitress left. The three of us had to carry the restaurant through the busiest month of the year. And we did it. When it was over the owner offered me a fifty cent an hour raise.
At that point I was clocking in an hour early as maid and cleaning the dining rooms and bathrooms. Our cleaning lady had quit. Then I was clocking in as chef and cleaning the kitchens before cooking for eight hours. After that I changed clothes and clocked in as a waitress so I could train in that department. I was working twelve hours a day with a one hour commute each way. And I had kept the owner’s business afloat when everything hit the fan. And he offered me only fifty cents more.
The very next time a customer sent a plate of food back to the kitchen, complaining that it was cold, I smashed the plate against the wall and walked out. Something inside me had broken.
I thought I had recovered, and moved on with life. We got married, had a bunch of kids, bought a house, made our life. But cooking has lost it’s joy. The trauma of that mess, combined with kids who won’t eat what I cook, and toddlers who are always in my face actively destroying what I make as I make it has turned cooking into a necessary evil.
The thing is, I love cooking. So much more than I love sewing. When I make clothes that is an expression of myself. But cooking is more. People come together around the table, they commune with one another while keeping themselves alive. The excitement of combining flavors, the fun of throwing a foot-long flame in the air and not burning the scallops, the satisfaction and pride of getting a dish perfect all pale in comparison to the joy of giving people the gift of bringing them together in body and soul.
And I’ve lost that.
I’m not depressed though. Now that I know what the problem is, I can work on fixing it. I’m excited to start my food journey afresh. I’ll have to be more creative than I’ve ever been, because of the kids being both picky and all over me. But I think this morning I’m looking at that as a challenge, rather than a predetermined failure.
