Thrumming

Food is life. Well, duh, you're thinking. We all have to eat. OK, true, but it's more than that. What we eat, our preparation of it, who we eat it with, how we serve it, what we serve it on... all of that is life. To apply the laws of logic to this idea, if food is life, and I love food, I also love life. Bingo.


I am happy when I take the time to lovingly prepare food. (Oh this blog could go in so many directions. That last sentence makes me think about Water for Chocolate. But I'm not going that direction. Yet.) It's a bonus and oh so gratifying if the folks I'm feeding rave about the food. it's actually even satisfying when I make something for myself and I, alone, rave about it.

I've come to think about food in a new way. Much, much less as fuel. And more, more, more as integral to our health and happiness. Do you think it's coincidental that the main event in the catholic mass is a meal of bread and wine?

Anyway. Food. Life.

Michael and I spent a day cooking in Provence. The owner of our hotel, Dominique, had arranged a Provencal cooking class for us with Eric and Madeline. Eric, a chef and collector of recipes from Roman times and his American wife, Madeline run a B&B and cooking school in the south of France. They had agreed to spend this damp, foggy day in November planning, preparing and eating both lunch and dinner with the two of us.

We made a pizza with an anchovy paste, chicken encrusted with a poultice of anise, cumin, caraway, and cardamom, and a red rice, chick pea and ginger dish for lunch. After eating and drinking, Eric and Madeline cleaned up while Michael and I traipsed around the narrow streets of Arles and climbed the tower of it's Roman arena. From there we could see the mouth of the Rhone where it flowed into the Mediterranean.

The walled city was vanishing into a starless darkness when we emerged from Saint Triomphene and found our way back to the tiny 10th century house. There we began again, chopping, talking, eating, and drinking. Dinner started with a briny oyster consomme that tasted like the sea and ended with a hearty and aromatic lamb stew.

Not measured in hours or minutes, the day unfurled in a succession of color, texture. and taste. All ears, eyes, nose, and mouth, my body thrummed with the simple pleasure of sensing. The mingling of French and English, oil and vinegar, salt and sugar, and water and wine felt sacred. Past and present became one on this timeless day.