The art of cooking is not restricted to the act. More often than not, it happens post and prior the experience, inside what we call the beautiful mind. There are days when I wake up with an inspiration for an ingredient, there are moments where I play out the process in my head during the lighter hours to later replicate in the evening in my kitchen, and there are the fantasies that help me sink into pleasurable dreams, where the perfect textured ingredients are blended and combined to create a masterpiece.
More often than not, when I have decided to cook something for dinner, a part of the day is filled with envisioning this dream. I realise now, how much pride I take in this quirk; pride enough to write about what it feels like, to cook, without actually cooking. A literal journey through cooking up ideas in the head - Pasta made with love, in creative imagination and ink (which is also why the photos you see look too good to be true)!
As I sit at my desk poised to write out a fantasy, I know within that the content is already in there somewhere. I only need to live the process yet again, as I put pen to paper, so to speak. It was a decision made in the early waking hours, that I would cook pasta for dinner, and as with many such decisions that I arrive at for creating something out of nothing, it first happens in my head. If only the sages who preach the power of visualisation could see me at my best in this process. I do it out of habit, and hardly understand the why's, but it sets a great precedent to the actual work and art, and gives me a sense of ordered perfection, since nothing can go wrong here. It is the only place where you are safe from the realities of kitchen wars (why does the alfredo sauce always get clumpy?), and where the true princess chef in you can look her best while at work!
Disclaimers aside that this piece results in nothing but a perfect serving in the mind, it is important that we let ourselves go in the process, without holding back, since after all, mind does come over matter, and the pen could be mightier than the sword / kitchen knife. Here goes nothing then, if that's how we are to put it, my perfect pasta dish, from scratch till golden brown and oozing with great cheese in the crevices created by itself.
The good times in the kitchen are made of me in a fantastic apron, the freshest ingredients, and my imagination within my perceived thoughts. And this is just how it is likely to play out in this one too; solitude at its best. I waltz to the fridge; not walk or rush towards. Time is not a concern, and the world is our oyster. I consider an imaginary chef's hat, but decide that I don't deserve that, even in a fantasy. I spot the spinach which needs cooking, and take out the sausages as well. The olives could help with garnishing, and I must remember to use the rosemary before it dries out completely. I know that I don't have cream, so I will make the white sauce. Of course this is what constitutes as most important, since I am currently on the path of perfecting this art (with some success stories to my credit). I take up the challenge with ease, the slight nagging doubts blown away with the breeze that seems to be effortlessly blowing through the soft tendrils of my hair. The butter, which I have in good quantity, will of course be cut into those perfect little cubes, so that I can indeed measure out four square cubes to begin my sauce with. To add some substance, I will use sausages cut into the right girth. I decide that I don't want to be rushed in between the process, so I ensure that all my ingredients are well placed, on my wooden cutting board. This includes the freshly washed spinach leaves, with tiny droplets of water on them that shimmer in the light of the setting sun through the window. It also includes the cheese, pre-grated and ready to go in, the flour and milk in their respective containers but of course will come out in the right amount when I need them to. I put my pasta to boil right away, while I continue to arrange everything else I will need. Since I know I will be baking the dish later, I do not cook the pasta fully, as must be. I draw some inspiration from an online video I saw earlier in the day, and take out the garlic pods and onion powder, which I believe will add a punch of flavour, without messing with the consistency of the sauce. Faith is key here, and my positive energy vibes are in full force.
The wonderful thing about making pasta is that it is so effortless and pleasurable. I love that it turns out perfect every time. The slow process of mixing in the cheese to melt in, followed by the pasta to coat heartily is my favourite part. But before that happens, I have to go through the motions to get everything just right. As the pasta boils away to the right number of minutes, I turn on the adjacent stove to melt the butter in the gorgeous pan in which the prestigious sauce shall be created. As it fizzles to fill my kitchen with the aroma of melting butter, I add the one thing that shall make the place smell even more like heaven on earth - garlic! How I love this combination, a match made on cloud number nine. As the garlic gets roasted in the pan, I add in some flour, taking care not to burn the ingredients before I add the milk. In a quick decision of emotional flare, I realise deep within that adding onion powder will be a mistake, so I skip that. I place it back in the cupboard carefully, apologising for raising its hopes. I continue to add the milk, gently stirring it to the consistency that I have been aiming at during my practice hours. I am pleased at how this is turning out.
Once the sauce is off the stove, and cooling enough to add the cheese, I check on my pasta draining in the colander. Since I am effortlessly good at multi-tasking in scenarios such as these, I had managed to get the boiling done well in time before it got over cooked. I am excited to add the cheese and watch it melting in, but hold myself back, so that I don't jinx it. My husband walks in to compliment me on how heavenly I look, despite having some strategically placed flour on the tip of my nose and a swipe across my cheek. Before I know it, I have the spinach getting done in butter and garlic, and the sausages frying away a slight bit before I can mix them in the pasta. At this point I realise that the garlic should not have gone in the white sauce mixture, but rather when I cook the spinach. In fact, I could have added a touch of garlic to the butter at the beginning, but not too much to mess the sauce as it got cooked. Since all of this happens in my head, no mistake is costly, and I am only glad that I realised the error that I can fix during my next day dream. I add in the cheese, alternating between the two kinds I have, all grated and ready. I love watching how the mixture combines and becomes stringy. I add a bit of salt, more as a gesture than the amount required, and get ready to move on with the other stuff.
By now restlessness has caught up, and the slow process of each step gets hastened. I know that I am only a few minutes away from popping it into the oven, so I am not worried about the increased pace. In goes the pasta, the sausages, the spinach and a good dash of salt and pepper. I consider adding paprika, but realise that I have a pasta herb mix in the cupboard which I should use instead. So I sprinkle that in, along with a seasoning for steak, in line with the slightly increased flavour that I'm aiming at. I add the black olives from my new container, and finally some cheese on top, a mix of two varieties.
It goes into the oven, and is done before I can wrap my head around the waiting and guessing process. It looks and smells beautiful. As beautiful as I look in the moonlight that is streaming in through the window by then. I receive worthy praise and attention for my efforts, and relax with some wine, while I enjoy the beautiful flavours. Life is full of good times and nothing can disrupt this as long as it is a wonderful figment of my imagination.
