“A good cook is like a sorceress who dispenses happiness”

~Elsa Schiaparelli

I’m of the opinion that mean people can’t cook. I take full responsibility for this opinion.

Mean people aren’t capable of food that tastes good and treats your body well.  Mean people compose a false representation of cuisine because they’re hiding the fear it will not measure up to the food of others. Mean people cook with the blindfold of their "infallibility" and thereby spoil many broths. Mean people want others to be as sickened as they are and subconsciously add avarice, neglect, and self-indulgence to their recipes.

In order to do something well, to do it right, here is my personal recipe: Start out with good will. Competition is not a good reason to start. Superiority is a poor establishment. Righteousness is an illusion.

When your heart has only the hopes that it can bring something good, when your soul wants only to warm those of others, when you are no longer afraid of that which cannot hurt you, only then do you have the perfect recipe.

Call me crazy. I am, but that is beside the point. I make good food, it is my favorite tool, and this is because all my life I have been hungry, and somehow, I learned to pay close attention.

Which is why I know some of the sweetest desserts have been seasoned with tears, but that comes from a different place.

And I have had experiences with some very angry chefs – who behaved badly in the domain of their kitchens, but somewhere in their childhood was a Grandmother who made chicken soup with home made noodles, and they are honoring some memory with their steamy demeanors and drive to do things right the first time.

I have tasted some braised, tomatoish tender meat dishes from women who had mean streaks. But that was only a small percentage of their complexity, and they managed to keep it out of their food.  After locking themselves in their bedrooms where they cried with disappointment, they emerged into the kitchen with hope, a wooden spoon with character, and a freshly pressed apron of Battenburg lace.

I myself have a tongue sharp as an unused ceramic knife, but I only use it to slice things that otherwise would not make it as part of a healthy main course. I have learned, after cutting to the bone or through bleeding that won’t stop, how to put the knife away in favor of a gentler repast.

Instead of paper-folded thank you notes, I give Oatmeal Raisin cookies as a gesture of gratefulness, or simply because I can't help but share the goodness of a timeless cookie. To make it my own, I add the fragrant, sienna colored powder I call Pixie Dust – it’s been known to induce feelings of falling-in-love like euphoria. Into the cookie batter, I  grate magic from a powerful seed that is said to enhance intuition. Nothing I cook or bake is for the sake of hunger alone.

And as I write this, I have little ones asking when I will be done so that I may cook their first meal of the day. I have also learned how to quiet my mind, and let the creative culinary side of me take over, so as not to ignore an empty belly, so as not to shun nourishing due to ambition. I have learned that all hunger leads to and from the heart.

If it is not from the heart, it is not worth eating.