Cutting up Swiss Chard for dinner tonight, I sampled a piece, and it tasted like the farm. How does the farm taste? Wholesome, down home, fresh. Green like fresh-mowed hay. Like plants and life. And I thought…
OK, the cabin was different than the farm. But–duh!–there is more about me loving the cabin that is in kinship with the farm than different. There is a lot more that is the same about the two. The interest distinguishes me from my sisters. None of them have ever had a cabin, though they’ve visited mine.
Cooking in general, in fact, reminds me of the country–where the pace of life is slower. My pace of life is VERY fast. In the country, it slows down below the norm. Different things happen at a slower pace of life. Writing happens. Cooking happens–the blending of tastes and textures, the simmering of flavors. Thoughtfulness happens at a slower pace of life.
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