I've admitted before that I have this fetish...I love to read recipes. I love to cook too, but not as much as I like to read about cooking. I love imagining spring-green blanched vegetables, a creamy roux, a rich gratin, and a perfectly golden seared scallop. In a cookbook, every recipe comes out perfectly. Every tablescape is delightfully understated yet classic. Everybody cooks seasonally and organically and uses the term 'farm-to-table' as if we were raised with fatty ducks waddling around our backyards waiting for the chance to become a smooth foie gras. Life is orderly and measured and you know that if you put in A and B you get C in the end.
Recently, waiting in the airport for my plane to take me to my next job interview, I settled in and pulled out my New Yorker magazine. Reading The New Yorker is a special indulgence I allow myself when I fly. I always buy one at the airport magazine stand and allow myself a few hours of reaping the reward of other's intelligence. Anyway, I read a passage that stuck with me and i'll share it with you.
When you start to cook, as when you begin to live, you think that the point is to improve the technique until you end up with something perfect, and that the reason you haven't been able to break the cycle of desire and disillusion is that you haven't yet mastered the rules. Then you grow up, and you learn that that's the game.
I'll be honest, when I read this passage I can't explain to you exactly what it means, but I love to take it apart and examine it. And it kept coming back to me as I struggled once again with trying to portray my 'perfect' self and find the 'perfect' job. What exactly is the right formula? What combination of factors will make a job that will be 'perfect' for me and I for it? Where is that ideal city where both my husband and I will find fulfilling careers and ample social opportunities while nurturing our spirit of adventure? Or am I missing the point entirely?
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