For over a year, I lived in a suitcase, or make that several bags, shuttling to and from one city to another. I lived in three different homes simultaneously. Then one day I wake up and find me in another bed, another house, without my German knives, a few of my favorite cookbooks left, and a lifetime of cooking memories. And because I didnt have my favorite knives, I stopped cooking.
The cooking universe evolved to reach a state where it revolved around only one person, and the person is gone. And so did the raison d'etre for the cooking exercise. How can something which began as therapy quickly become associated with something equally traumatizing as the incident that one sought to recover from? Life is like that it seems, we hurtle from one drama to another. And sometimes, in our utter lack of judgment, and in expectation of sympathy, we reveal details about ourselves that we really shouldn't. Drama leads to a lot of vulgarity, vulgarity being the desperate revelation of ourselves.
Cooking as an act of love? Or cooking as a mask to conceal the absence of feeling? Like other daily routines that conceal the hollowness of moribund relationships. I cook, therefore I love.