Once upon a midnight dreary, my dear readers, I would have claimed that I really felt no longing or pleasure in stirring up a meal for myself that was not easy to throw haphazardly into a pot in random portions to last a week or was presented to me in the form of an aluminium canister or frosted box directly from the ice chest into the oven. That is not to say I was too lackadaisical or would not have preferred a sumptuous dish, I am only stating that it seemed too much effort for a sole individual whose aim was to scarf down anything that would fill the void inside me (the empty belly, not my desolate soul) and move on.
This attitude is odd, even to myself, since I do enjoy cooking and concocting various dinner options … but … for an audience. The delight of others as they slice into one of my moist carrot cakes, the sparkle in their eyes when they sup upon my chicken baked in mustard sauce with rosemary and olives over basmati rice (pic above) … and the stunned expressions on their mugs as they witness me pouring maple syrup over bacon infused pancakes or breakfast sausages. It is not just the attention or gratitude I crave … it is the simple joy in making something that someone besides myself likes and wants more of.
Something happened along the way over the past few years as I was part of group dinners during my time in the far north of Norway. Not only was I able to fry up schnitzels for starving coworkers or bake moose sausage pizzas for appreciative guests, but I found a thrill in cooking for myself once more, realising maybe that I too deserve to have my guts treated with appreciation more often than they had been.
From living on a small island with no shops and limited access to the mainland, I learned a few new tricks along the way, too, as kneading up my own bread now is a weekly event … and far easier than I had ever imagined possible! I take great pleasure in it, more so than one should possibly receive … maybe the flour has been cut with some substance I automatically inhale during the mixing process that caused euphoria … who knows …
There does arise the issue of portions, as many stocks do not come packaged for a single individual off the dating circuit with no one else to feed, and for this I use one tried and true method of just indulging in the same grub for a few days or … I present my culinary creations to the neighbours. I get one hell of a kick out of this, I confess. My bread, lasagne and quiche have been disseminated at random to the folk within proximity in the form of a good natured swapping of food-filled Tupperware. Christmas cookies get paid in kind with carrot cake, a jar of soup with home-seasoned hamburgers, and the trade is stupendously fair and incredibly enjoyable on the palate for all, I hope.
Though I must relay this … when I get the occasional spot of gossip coming to my ears, I can’t help but feel a giddy warmth inside when I hear the shock of mostly the local wives as they share to one another: “The older dude that lives alone in a shoebox with tattoos and an earring knows how to fucking cook! Damn! ‘Tis a shame I am married, otherwise my knickers would be throw to the wind, as I truly crave this desirable prince of the kitchen!” (Maybe I lost something in translation from Czech to English on the second part of that last claim. I need to get a dictionary out to confirm, really).
Now, if I could just get a licence for a food truck dispersing scrambled egg and bacon with a healthy splash of sriracha on a bread roll to the local steel workers as they finish shifts (along with a cold beer), I would be the next Rockefeller of Central Europe!
