Cooking

I read cookbooks the way other people devour novels. Even when I am not looking for a recipe to use for dinner tonight, I'll browse for upcoming dinners. When I start craving dessert, I'll open up Joy of Cooking to the cake section and daydream about what I'd like to try. I have so many pages flagged that the book flutters when the wind blows past it.

Cooking calms me. It's the perfect stress reliever. Not particularly on the evenings when I get home late, strung-out on trauma, and shaking from hunger, but on the days when I can plan ahead. This weekend, I planned my first homemade Indian meal by picking out the recipes Friday night and making the grocery lists. Saturday I shopped and made the marinade for the chicken so it could soak up all that garam masala overnight. Sunday I measured out all the ingredients and stacked the containers on the counter and in the fridge in the order that they'd have to be added to the dish. So when it came down to the actual cooking, I made myself a pot of Chai Masala and leisurely cooked, taking time to smell everything and swirl the richly colored spices around in the pans.

Ginger chickpeas, curried rice pilaf, and Chicken Tikka Masala. Oh heaven. But the best part about cooking is having guests over and watching them swoon over the food. I'd love to be a chef, but I think that would probably take all the fun out of it.