Bow-Wow Blam Bake & Sugar Cookies

The sky is gray outside, washing my whole house in dimness. Already it feels like the day has faded away drearily, though the clock reads noon. I wish it adjusted to how the days actually appear, the atmosphere of them. Yet it ticks on relentlessly, a lonely scorekeeper of ages upon ages and beyond. Outside, the air is heavily-moist and humid; the rain wants to fall desperately to chill the earth down below. I stand in my kitchen on the almost-freezing tiles, and I begin to battle the day's innate loneliness. In my hand I carry an old family recipe, from my husband's side, previously untried in our home. It's a strange one in which molasses marries with mustard and pork-and-beans. Grilled onions and sliced sausages are added here and there, and this queer coupling of ingredients fascinates me. I gather ingredients and arrange them neatly in an accessible line on my counter. My casserole dish is already waiting beside them, thrilled at the attention to be bestowed upon it shortly. I mix and add, subtract some truly strange ingredients...and suddenly, a casserole forms. It is strange, yet it presents a delicate balance of sweetness and saltiness. I cannot resist a nibble, and I am surprised. The oven, a happy 350 degrees, opens it mouth to swallow the meal, a Cave of Wonders in my very own kitchen. Soon a pleasant aroma fills the house, and I dimness recedes a bit in the golden glow of the kitchen light. Or perhaps it simply decided to join us for lunch.
While the casserole bubbles warmly in the oven I begin to make sugar-cookie dough. If nothing else cheers the soul, cookies can always do the trick. The dough is a sweet reminder of spring, and as the rain begins to streak down the windows and drum on the walkway politely, I wonder if it too recalls the sugar-cookie days of spring. Select cookie cutters tumble about- a truck, a dinosaur, a star, a teddy bear...- all press themselves eagerly into the soft dough. Tiny sugar candies lend their colors to the creamy pallet, and soon the kitchen is warm and practically sunny. The rain falls, the time passes, the clouds continue to burst and the sky remains slate-gray...here in my kitchen however, only happiness stays.

Simply Sinful Delight

Dear You,
Admist the chaos echoed throughtout my living room from the news, I sit on the far corner of my couch and type away. I am busy creating a Recipe Inventory, a sort of catalog of all the recipes I have collected over a three-year span.
Some people like to paint, others like to write, some still like to sew. I enjoy all of these hobbies, but everything pales in comparison to Cooking. It's silly, almost, how Cooking and I fell in love. It was sudden, unexpected- Cinderella meets Prince Charming, only more passionate. One day, I was in the kitchen, and I opened the cupboard. My mother and I were going to bake bread, and I was intent on helping her as much as I could. While she prepared some sourdough, I experimented boldly. Into my uncertain dough I mixed sweet spices, and powdered my creation with melted butter and cinnamon-sugar. I put it in the oven, this first creation all my own, and soon a heavenly scent was in the air. Every ten minutes I would glaze the top in my butter-spice concoction, until it was beautifully golden inside and the crust a rich, buttery brown. Steam rose from my freestyled Danish as I pulled it apart, tasting a small pinch of what I had made. And I knew-this was something I was in love with.
Once I got married, I bloomed into a true, natural chef. I enjoyed reading endless cookbooks and experimenting with flavors. I became an advid collector of unique cookbooks, usually forgotten ones full of surprises. Sometimes, while shopping for groceries, I can see how each potential ingredient will blend, flavors melding together lusiously. I love how recipes sound, melodic and sincere... Melon-Apple Chutney & Jenshan Chicken with Silver Noodle Tea.
I love how cooking can take me anywhere, better than any man's promise. I can be like Aladdin on his magic carpet, visting hidden corners of the world, and expanding my cuisine to encompass many exotic flavors from far-off places and cultures unknown. Cooking is timeless; I can cook Grandma's recipes or I can learn the skills of the ancients. When I have a child, she will cook with me, and when I'm old I can cook for the future. I can ask, who are you? Who were you? Where did you go and what have you to tell me? What is your story? Food quietly answers me, engaging my interests and hinting at glimpses of memories from past-lives. I wonder, this rice that I eat, who grew it? This chicken I prepare, where did you come from? I imagine someone far away, perhaps a lot like me, wondering the same things while lovingly wrapping tamales in tenderized corn husks. Cooking is a language all its own, accessible only to those who are whole-heartedly willing to listen. There should be a planet called Cooking, but maybe there already is. It's a place where age has no bearing, time is forgotten, and warm sunshine keeps the kitchen golden all day long.