I love cooking. Sometimes, the urge to cook comes to me as a set of smells, flavors, and colors. A complex equation which I have to sort out while opening the freezer, fridge and cupboards. It comes to me in a rush, like the call of an innate voice.
Baking is okey. It is unpredictable. When cooking, I can understand, feel, and help the ingredients "get there". I can't bake intuitively. I have to follow a recipe, feeling both frustrated and anxious to be blinkered with such restraints. As rewarding as it can be, baking can be very very disappointing.
Bread making, is my jinx. And the microwave is my unannounced enemy, failing to satisfy me even with tasks as simple as heating lef overs.
With that said, there are those days when I don't love cooking, nor like baking; when I am not jinxed by bread making, nor failed by the microwave. The line of passion becomes horizontal. In those days fast food chains and fancy dining all sound the same and evoke no senses. It makes no sense that people -myself included- can waste their time making hot sticky stuff that are to be gulped down in minutes. Those days are not necessarily sad ones, but they reveal to me how our passion with life can fluctuate as such.
I begin to question: in the absence of obvious reasons what triggers our ups, our downs, and what tunes out the curves making us walk a nutral line?
I also begin to wonder if wisdom (ageless wisom, passed down generation after another, passed around a country to another) if it does not stand as an assurance to members of the orechestra that they are all still working together in the same piece.
Is wisdom our assurance that we are living the very same life?