Of Kitchen Tales That Never Get Old Essay Examples

Wash a vessel, shake water off it, without rubbing it with a towel and put it on the stove. Light it. Tiny droplets move around in a furious dance, moments before they evaporate. Residual stock on the walls of the vessel is drawn in too, seemingly by these massless, baseless droplets in an effort to make more of their own kind. Drawn into the fight like unwilling gladiators, they collide, forcefully moving away from the vapour and then moving into it, becoming vapour. For me, the kitchen is an embodiment of all kinds of wonders in the world, a place where patience actually pays off, where learning matters and where mistakes - big or small, can be undone. The tiny little room with a chimney on top of the stove, black shiny tiles on the wall, luminescent in the most remarkable of ways, a glaze of mist that goes unseen if not for the sunlight trickling through the ventilator, empty vessels one stacked one over the other, their hollows making waves in ether without having to be touched.
The kitchen also happens to be the place where I study. A newspaper as I brew coffee, taking in the events of yesterday with complacence just like ground coffee blends with the vapours of steam. I read the latest in chemistry as I fry the bacon, watching little bubbles of flesh surface on the processed flesh, waiting for the brown to appear to make red more palatable. And wonder about particle physics as I watch the dishes rotate in the microwave. Matter constantly changes from one form into another in my little kitchen, and I watch and I watch, the bubbles and the smoke, the melting butter, the spreading cheese and spices rolling in fat. I hear the little chops of everything, fizzing and popping, hear the sound of the whistle, the hiss of smoke, the drip of honey and the whip of cream. The roll of dough under my fingers, the slippery beans, the slick slash of sharp metal as if the knife was cutting me instead of the slender carrot, so smooth its motion, so confident its stance; and I feel the veinous detail of the lettuce, with the knowledge of flowing fluids inside, far from dead, the heaviness of the bulbs knowing they’ve come from the deep of the earth, the farsightedness of the onion and the mysterious texture of cucumber. On the cold granite slab, I plonk myself and dangle my legs, wondering the etymologies of words like hogwash and potato-head. And of the Higg’s boson as I stir the dough, round and round, feeling it get thicker and thicker. Of love and concern as I mash potatoes that way my mother does, with lumps. And all those things the world is made up of, all those things it lacks, because maybe, just maybe, a dip of marinara sauce, a squeeze of lemon and a pinch of salt can fix that.
There is another special part of the kitchen I must mention here. The red bar stool that stands alone by the counter. It’s a great place to wait and watch, it presenting an ample view of the television in the living room, and maybe it’s just me, but I feel that the acoustics of my deck come to their full form in this square foot where the red stool is located. It’s like a safe haven, a hideout and my personally grill and bar, this counter and the single stool, where I can pretend to be with dozens and revel being alone at the same time. Sometimes, when people talk about working for the sake of work, no dreams, no passions, no big ambitions, but just work - because you love it - I see myself sitting right here on a winter morning, in thick socks and gloves, a steaming cup of coffee serenely making waves in air, letting the shivers go and finding stillness in whatever I was doing. At other times, I imagine the ferry Buddhists talk about, the narrow ferry to happiness or Hinayana. I’m not sure what it means exactly, but I have a feeling it begins its journey from a place like this. Of course, there are also silly theories about the world works that I tend to come up with often, finding continuum between big bang and earth’s primordial soup, the drifting of continents and species evolution. Seems to me like the universe was in the process of making islands for each man, where he can just be - with an environment that grows and tastes and smells and looks its own way, where thinking, doing, surviving and finding one’s own expression is all possible, islands which move, communicate with and complement the rest of the world and the men living in it alike. Islands like this. When else can we all be so different and still the same, if not for when we are alone?
More can be said of my time in the kitchen than there are smells and tastes recognised by human senses. More can be felt in the solitude of the rectangular space where something is always changing than in the busiest streets of New York. More can be measured in terms of experience, sense gratification and self-worth in this space that I have marked as mine, than in a whole year spent shopping around the world. But then again, in my kitchen, less is more.