There Is Risk In Slowing Down
Leaning into the next season
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If you ask me why fall is my favorite season, I could tell you it’s because my bone marrow is made of Midwest dirt. I could tell you it’s because I need to witness the cycle of dying only to become once again. I could tell you it’s because I give Lorelai Gilmore a run for her money when it comes to loving the first sight of snow. The deepest truth there is about my love for fall and the subsequent winter is that I love my return to the kitchen.
While I enjoy summer produce, it takes less time to tend to a meal. You can pick up a peach and bite it; skin on like an apple without the waxy residue. You can pick a tomato, chop it in half and toss it into a salad because it’s better eaten raw. I find myself chopping less. My teeth take the brunt of being blade.
Growing up, my mother never cooked much. The contents of our meals included the cheapest ground meat we could find, boxed ingredients all ready to throw in a single pan, vegetable oil, and various cans of vegetables or fruit. I don’t think I ever saw my mom chop something. There wasn’t a cutting board in the house. To me, luxury is a well-oiled wooden cutting board and a sharp knife. I’ll be honest: I have washed my knives in the dishwasher. I often trade sharpness for sanitation.
I’m not sure I know how to do anything the right way. Even when I chop an onion, I know there are ways chefs do it. When I hold a zucchini, I often forget to round my fingers. You’d think I’m begging for a wound. I just don’t know how to chop correctly. I never witnessed the details of homemaking, so I’m just making it up as I go.
I spend more time in the kitchen when it gets cooler outside. With each lowering degree, I learn more about how to cut and slice. There is trial and error in how many spices dishes actually need despite the recipe I follow online (it’s always more than what it calls for). I get to play with how much garlic I prefer, despite the effort to peel a clove. Cooking in the winter just takes more time. We are searching for warmth; whether it be stove, oven, or hearth, preheating is a waiting game. There’s patience needed.
My memories in my childhood home are quick snapshots. I don’t remember my mother taking her sweet time. Everything was rushed, and an underlying level of anxiety coated the house. Survival meant getting from one moment to the next the fastest way possible. We thought that less time meant less opportunity for something to go wrong.
I’m just making it up as I go, which means I often burn my tofu because I misjudge how long it takes to brown. I am known to cook things too hot. I haven’t mastered the art of cutting thin slices because I often hurry through the process and cut the cucumber at an angle I didn’t mean to.
Fall begs me to slow down. It reminds me that things will still cook (and likely taste better) if I start off at a lower heat. It invites me back to the cutting board I got from my mother-in-law for Christmas, a stage for another pare or prune performance. I am learning that despite what was shown to me, taking more time means there is less room for mistakes. If I deliberately tend to a celery stalk, I’ll get more precise slices. If I leisurely take a blade to a carrot, I am less likely to find a piece of my finger somewhere later.
There is risk in slowing down. You have to be present in your body. You must stop and taste between every step and blow on the spoon so you don’t burn your tongue. When it’s cold outside, I have no choice but to find warmth inside myself. I go to the kitchen to make soup because it is nourishing and a watched pot never boils so I have to wait elsewhere with myself. When the recipe says cook until fragrant, I have to inhale. I do not mean to say this is a bad thing. I mean to say, it is a scary thing.
I stumble across myself when I slow down. I notice feelings that have gone untended and how they have accumulated in my body. There is risk in slowing down because it is in the slowness we notice it all. This is the season I notice it all. I am learning to fall in love with the noticing and not see it as something I must rush through. A return to the kitchen is a return to myself.
I don’t know what it is about summer, maybe my utter hatred of the heat, but I take less care of myself. It’s harder for me to move my body, I don’t nourish as well because adding heat in any way makes me furious, so I often skip meals entirely. I envy those who can bask in the summer heat – could never be me. Maybe one day I will learn to slow down in the summer and tend to myself in the same way I do in the cold. But for now, I welcome another Midwest fall. I invite myself to the cutting board. I am my mother’s daughter, but I am trying something new.
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Love,
Loved this!!
what a gift it is to know you. there is risk in being present, living slow... and I'm all in :)
Love you