Beauty on the Backroads

Stories of grace for life's unexpected turns

cooking

What cooking teaches me about writing

I never thought I’d like to cook. I was forced to learn and experiment when I lived on my own after college, and while I’ve always liked to bake, cooking has taken a little longer to enjoy. But I love it now. And I have my husband to thank. His love of cooking was infectious in our early days of dating and marriage. Cooking together was something we looked forward to. Those days are few and far between now but he has taught me so much.

While baking cookies and putting together a beef stew last week, I realized that cooking and writing–both creative endeavors–have some things in common. And what I’ve learned about cooking relates to my writing. Here’s what I discovered that cooking can teach me about writing:

Recipes are a good place to start. Follow the lead of someone who’s done this before. Then improvise. Add your own style. I used to fear deviating from the recipe. I would follow it to the letter, afraid that if I added anything, I would ruin it. When I’ve had to improvise because we didn’t have the ingredients necessary, it’s worked out just fine. In writing, the same goes. There are patterns that work. Devices that others have used that are helpful to learn and follow. That doesn’t mean all my writing is going to sound like someone else’s work, but it’s a good place to start.

Similarly, I need to learn the basics. Knowing the difference between a tablespoon and a teaspoon is essential. Early in our marriage, I misread a recipe that called for a teaspoon of salt. I added a tablespoon. Dish, ruined. If you don’t know the difference between cumin and cinnamon, you’re probably in trouble. Once you know what works and what doesn’t, then you can start experimenting with your own ingredient combinations. In writing, I need to know how to write sentences. Long ones and short ones. How to craft paragraphs and dialogue and chapters. When I’ve learned those things, then I can try something new. I used to think the idea of an outline was too inhibiting for creativity. Now, in the midst of my first novel, I’m wishing I’d done some more pre-work. And I bristle when told to read books about style and story structure, but I know they would help.

It’s not all gourmet. I enjoy cooking for my family. But last week, I was craving boxed mac and cheese. I was burnt out from housework and snow days and my body was tired, so that’s what we ate for dinner. Nothing fancy. Not terribly good for us. But it worked for that night. I’m not going to crank out my best writing every time I sit down to write. Maybe not even every fourth time I sit down to write. It’s going to take practice. And time. And I might not ever be a “gourmet” writer. But not everyone wants gourmet all the time. Maybe my mac-and-cheese-in-a-box writing will be just the food someone needs that day.

Trust my gut. While making  the beef stew, a dish I’ve made several times with my husband but never in this house, with this stove, I hit a snag. The first round of “browning” the meat was more like “blacking” the meat. I had the burner turned up too high. I could have pressed on, convinced that I was doing it right, or I could trust my instincts and start over. That’s what I did. I dumped the oil, rinsed out the pan and melted another scoop of shortening at a lower temperature. I don’t know what my writing instincts are right now, but I know if I do it long enough, I’ll be able to trust my gut more and more.

It’s not about me. (Or you.) Ultimately, when I’m cooking, I’m not cooking for myself. And I’m infinitely more satisfied when I share the food I’ve made with other people. While I do write partly for me (because if I didn’t I think my head might literally explode), the end goal is to have other people read my words. So, I’m willing to do what it takes for that to happen. If I have to alter my dream or work a little harder or spend a little more, then I must.

I’ve been cooking for my family for almost seven years now, and I’m still no expert, but I’m getting better and finding my groove. I’ve been writing a lot longer than that, but I’m still a novice in a lot of ways. Whether cooking or writing, I’ve got a lot to learn, but I’m finding joy in the practice.

When the thankfulness takes thought

Yesterday I was feeling anything but thankful.

Lonely. Stressed. Overwhelmed. Ungrateful. Bitter.

Yeah, that’s more what my day before Thanksgiving was like. The list-making, the shopping, my daughter home from school giving us an extra six hours of potential fighting with her brother. I wanted to be thankful. But wanting it wasn’t making it happen.

Earlier in the week I’d realized this is our sixth Thanksgiving in Pennsylvania. The sixth year we’ve been absent from our family celebration in Illinois. It was coupled with the realization that Thanksgiving is our favorite holiday. Phil and I love the food and family, the togetherness in playing board games, laughing, sharing stories of years gone by. On Thanksgiving there’s no pressure to bring anything except yourself (and maybe your signature dish). No gifts. No pressure. Don’t get me wrong, I like Christmas. In theory. Maybe those are thoughts for another day.

So, there I was missing my family, not looking forward to the food prep ahead of me, feeling bad for feeling unthankful.

—

My hands were covered in flour, sticky and dough-covered as I formed and shaped the rolls. Our daughter stood next to me, her hands matching mine, doing her best to make round balls of dough that would later become dinner rolls. Our son was crumbling cornbread into a bowl, readying it for the cornbread dressing to be baked the next day.

And I realized something else.

In the six years we’ve been in Pennsylvania for Thanksgiving, I’ve learned a lot of things I might not have learned.

Making homemade rolls, for one. It’s taken me years to decipher the traditional recipe from my husband’s side of the family, and I still don’t get it right all the time. But I can make rolls from scratch using flour and yeast and everything, and they taste like dinner rolls, even if they look like blobs instead of clovers.

For this, I am thankful.

And cooking a turkey. I was terrified the first year, sure I would screw it up. But for five consecutive years I’ve brined and cleaned and oiled and roasted a turkey. (This year, we opted for a pork chop Thanksgiving.) And I learned that I actually like turkey.

For this, I am thankful.

I make pie crusts from scratch. We have our own food traditions now.

For this, I am thankful.

Over these years we’ve celebrated Thanksgiving with select members of our family, with other people’s families, with just the four of us. One year, we celebrated in anticipation of the arrival of the fourth member of our family.

And I’ve learned that sometimes family is geographic, rather than genetic. As much as we love our blood relatives, we’ve found friends who are as much like family here in Pennsylvania.

For this, I am thankful.

And I’ve learned to be thankful even when my husband had to work on Thanksgiving because at least he had a job.

This year, we’re glad to have him home for the day.

As we cooked up kukelas (pronounced like koo-kah-luhs), the German fried and sugared dough of my husband’s family’s heritage, and ate our fill of sugary goodness, the thankfulness hit me again. I’m thankful for this family, this house, this season of life, not because I think we deserve it or even because we have so much, but because we know what it is to not have, to nearly lose what’s most important, to take for granted.

For this, I am thankful. 

Not only for the blessings of God but for His mercy. For the grace of others. For love that covers a multitude of sins.

In everything, give thanks.