Sometimes on Saturday, after we've run errands and properly prepared the house for the hope of early couch time watching the perfect movie---before then---before the ultimate and longed for resting time that we constantly dream of, we put our Gold Clogs on and we prepare a meal.
And every time we do this we cannot believe we taught ourselves to cook.
And we remember how odd it seems now that our mother complained about each and every angry moment spent in front of the stove. And we remember how we learned, against our will and better judgement, that it was not the most lovely thing to cook a meal for those you love.
But cooking seems to be the labor that is brimming with the most love, we often thought.
And when we proclaimed this, this made her angry.
And so as we made our way into our own landscape we started to sleuth and research and study and configure and whisk and braise and measure and season and taste and chop and fold and prepare and serve and we found that we had a knack for cooking magical meals that often left those we loved gasping with joy and we found that our heart practically burst watching the sated expressions of the chewers and we felt like Mercury with our swift blazing talent and confusing food mill that was now our ally and each time we wrangled with a recipe that made as much sense as Pi and we eventually triumphed we thought Nothing Can Stop Us! Not Even Chiffonading! and we felt as though we were some sort of ancient warrior and so we purchased a pair of Golden Clogs to remind us of our glory and how much we've come shining through.
When in doubt add more salt,