Note: This is the first draft of a personal piece I’ve been asked to write for a sort of cookbook that a dear friend and mentor of mine is putting together.  I’m having some issues with the narrative POV, but I’ll figure those out.  It will be a collection of stories and recipes from a handful of people whom he consideres influential in his life. A majority of the book will be dedicated to explaining his method of eating, which has to do with planets and colors (it’s actually quite interesting!). It will be translated and published first in Bulgaria. This will sound preachy, but rest assured that the only time I’ll force you to eat like me is when you’re at my dining table. 

One of the last times I saw my father he was standing proudly, with his foot perched on a park bench, pointing to the buildings and trees that surrounded him.  “God is in everything,” he’d say. “Everything is God.”  “Is that hardware store God? What about the grass?” “There is a bit of god in everything that exists,” was the reply.

Later, I came to give “God” different names. I’d talk about “light” or “the divine” or “spirit”—but they share a similar meaning. Everything that the earth has given us should be honored and respected because it is divine—and we are divine, and should fill ourselves with the things the earth has given us. Even within my quest to shine bright, I could tell that my light was fragile indeed. Tormented by memories of my past, my light could flicker and disappear for days at a time. In an attempt to find clarity, I’d look to the world around me—but I would find no solace in the way my species treats the earth. We chop trees incessantly, we raise and kill our cattle in inhumane, factory-like settings, we genetically modify our fruits and vegetables so much that they’ve become tasteless, and rightfully people refuse to eat them. When we choose not to honor the earth, her decay is on our hands.

My method of approaching food is to first seek quality in my ingredients, following my personal ethics and taste, out of respect for their true nature. Fresh vegetables make up more than half of my food supply: their flavor and clean energy attracts me most. I like use food from its purest state, to honor the thing in itself. When I think strawberries would be delightful, I don’t buy 4 pounds of tasteless yet shippable strawberries. I buy in smaller quantities from a local farmer and pay a premium to experience the true taste of strawberries—delightful, isn’t it? On the rare occasion I drink coffee, I don’t feel right drinking a mocha-frap with two shots and extra whip. No, I prefer to taste the coffee itself. I feel as though when we process food, when we add chemicals to make it shelf-stable, when we grow it inhumanely, when we add fat and salt to appease our western tastes—we kill its spirit. It is no longer a full life force, and will not be fulfilling to our life force. While I choose to respect other’s opinion, mine is that we should be grateful for what the earth has given us, and choose not to spoil it before it becomes a sustaining and tasty meal for ourselves and others.

A few years ago I had little to no experience with cooking, just a fancy for well prepared food and a wonderful kitchen in which to explore. Anyone who has ever taught themselves how to cook understands how humbling those first few months can be. You’re making mistakes you don’t even know exist, your kitchen is always a mess, and your final product is often overcooked, mushy, or just downright ugly. Then the magic happens: you reach out to your resources, you read cookbooks, you learn new cooking techniques and you start succeeding. You execute your first omelet, your stir fry is crisp and flavorful because you’re finally used proper high heat and a wok, and you find yourself braising everything in sight. Sometimes, the dishes absolutely fall apart, but now you’re different.  You know better now, you can assess your failure, learn from it, and correct it. Soon you reach that marvelous place where your familiarity with the ingredients and the techniques is enough that you can create organically, and this is where true liberation happens. You’re that confident person passing from stall to stall at your Farmer’s Market, inquisitive and adventurous, picking up all kinds of new greens, gourds, fruits, and roots to play with. The learning process is never over, but now you’re soaring through the kitchen, and you’re free to put heart and soul into your cooking because you’re no longer preoccupied with falling into failure. The knife is has become an extension of your hand, you never burn your garlic, and your mise en place is your painters palette, its colors and flavors at the ready.  You dive in with glee, and as you emerge from the kitchen hours later, you are whole.

My relationship with food was a personal project until this year, when I began to feel like cooking for me wasn’t enough. Though I ate well and exercised daily, my internal light had paled. The reason for this fading is unnecessary to recount, but suffice it is to say that darkness was taking me fast. Just as I was meeting new and amazing people at my circus school, people who I wanted to befriend, the demons in my mind were rendering my silent. I couldn’t speak to them, for shame that my thoughts were taking up too much space in the world. Poisonous thoughts, indeed.  When even a “Hello!” became too much for me to handle, I decided to show them my heart using another method. The minute I sent out invitations for a homemade Thanksgiving feast, the light flickered back on. I buried myself in preparations, selecting the best produce and preparing the feast for three days straight. By the time the guests and I sat down to a delicious dinner, the veil had been lifted. I am so grateful for the people who attended the first dinner party: without the ability to give life to them, I would have never found my own again. As they ate, I knew they could finally see the love I had in my heart. It showed in the careful knife work, the unique flavors, and the sheer amount of food. People often speak fondly of their mother’s cooking, remembering nights spent around the table with their family. I have no such memory and have had no such feeling—but I imagine it must be the same sort of warmth that came over everyone at that dinner, and at all the meals since.

In a world where people refuse to see each other as they really are, I am grateful to have guests brave enough to sit across the table from each other for hours on end, feeling the wholeness and delighting in the conversation. For me, the true joy comes from knowing that this beautiful food I am able to serve them to so full of life. I believe deep down that through every healthful meal I serve, I am giving a person perhaps fifteen more minutes of life span and a greater quality of life until then. I never expect anything in return. To finally be able to express and feel love in a way uniquely suited to me is payment enough.