Post #3: Carbonara
Then, and even now, my memories made that entire summer were, and are, unclear and irretrievable. I could not tap into what happened earlier that month, week, or morning. I did recognize, however, the powerful drive, nay, need to make pasta carbonara for Bob. And with no need to concentrate or focus I knew precisely what was needed: I had to make it without peas because Bob prefers his sans peas. (Another note: cut the onions small so he doesn’t notice them). I tapped into a memory, a series of memories in an instant!
I knew I HAD to make pasta carbonara for Bob but never considered he lives in another state and there were no plans to see them soon. What does that matter? If I make carbonara, Bob will come. I also knew I HAD to make it myself, with no one’s help. I procured bacon from my bacon supplier and delighted in the sensation of handling the meat; the heft was just as I remembered, the fat marbled beautifully and felt sufficiently oily but not too much, and the smell had the right intensity of smokiness.
I found just the knife I wanted in order to slice across the grain of the bacon strips. My left hand fumbled as I clumsily shifted the bacon, or the cutting board, as I wanted. My rhythm was off. But I persisted. I like to cook bacon in the oven rather than on the stove top and I wanted to fry the ground sausage on the range anyway. While those meats were cooking, I automatically grabbed for the ham slices to dice on the cutting board. I knew the exact size to aim for––so that both cooking time and textures would be in right proportion to the size and shape of the bacon and sausage crumbles. I understood the importance of timing too, as I judged when to start warming the cream and at what point to add the cheese and other ingredients.
I did not have to stop to consult a recipe, the steps kept unfolding one after the other, using a series of steps and processes in the correct order from start to finish. Bob’s carbonara was done.
The momentous use of logic and reasoning was inconsequential to me in that moment. Instead, I stood satisfied by food. Satisfied that I got to touch foods, both in their raw and cooked states. I got to smell the change that happens to food when heat is applied to them. I got the see how separate, individual ingredients made their presence known in a dish and worked with the other ingredients to become a unified and rich meal.
All the separate and isolated pieces of cognitive therapy worked together without a hitch when I could apply those skills, techniques, and processes to the act of cooking. When applied in other areas, I struggled, failed, and was frustrated. In the kitchen, success built upon success. My mind worked, sometimes.
Then, and even now, my memories made that entire summer were, and are, unclear and irretrievable. I could not tap into what happened earlier that month, week, or morning. I did recognize, however, the powerful drive, nay, need to make pasta carbonara for Bob. And with no need to concentrate or focus I knew precisely what was needed: I had to make it without peas because Bob prefers his sans peas. (Another note: cut the onions small so he doesn’t notice them). I tapped into a memory, a series of memories in an instant!
I knew I HAD to make pasta carbonara for Bob but never considered he lives in another state and there were no plans to see them soon. What does that matter? If I make carbonara, Bob will come. I also knew I HAD to make it myself, with no one’s help. I procured bacon from my bacon supplier and delighted in the sensation of handling the meat; the heft was just as I remembered, the fat marbled beautifully and felt sufficiently oily but not too much, and the smell had the right intensity of smokiness.
I found just the knife I wanted in order to slice across the grain of the bacon strips. My left hand fumbled as I clumsily shifted the bacon, or the cutting board, as I wanted. My rhythm was off. But I persisted. I like to cook bacon in the oven rather than on the stove top and I wanted to fry the ground sausage on the range anyway. While those meats were cooking, I automatically grabbed for the ham slices to dice on the cutting board. I knew the exact size to aim for––so that both cooking time and textures would be in right proportion to the size and shape of the bacon and sausage crumbles. I understood the importance of timing too, as I judged when to start warming the cream and at what point to add the cheese and other ingredients.
I did not have to stop to consult a recipe, the steps kept unfolding one after the other, using a series of steps and processes in the correct order from start to finish. Bob’s carbonara was done.
The momentous use of logic and reasoning was inconsequential to me in that moment. Instead, I stood satisfied by food. Satisfied that I got to touch foods, both in their raw and cooked states. I got to smell the change that happens to food when heat is applied to them. I got the see how separate, individual ingredients made their presence known in a dish and worked with the other ingredients to become a unified and rich meal.
All the separate and isolated pieces of cognitive therapy worked together without a hitch when I could apply those skills, techniques, and processes to the act of cooking. When applied in other areas, I struggled, failed, and was frustrated. In the kitchen, success built upon success. My mind worked, sometimes.
