I am tired from all the things I don’t understand.

Like how to deliver a perfectly timed dinner. which is important because I cook for my job. I think the issue may be, I want to let go of the idea of perfectly timed. Of perfect. It is limiting. Perfect leaves no space for all the beautiful things that perfect isn’t. It may mean, giving up my job.

I don’t like the idea of courses. I go for, “what do you want to eat?” and then, “let’s make it.” Unless of course it’s cassoulet, which you have to prepare for. But it doesn’t matter when you eat, with cassoulet. You start it three days before it is going to be ready, and then you can hold it until the cows come home. You can eat it whenever you feel like it.

But let’s say, your heart wants pasta. And there is nothing that would make you happier. Your heart doesn’t care about perfectly timed. Your heart just wants to watch you sift flour across the counter and crack eggs in the middle and roll it out with the wine bottle from a few days ago. You grate the cheese. You watch the water boil. There is no wine to pour before the food is on the table, and it doesn’t matter. There is wine at the corner. A fifteen minute hold up makes your heart beat faster. You ladle pasta water into the pan and drop in the cheese with a cut of butter and whisk, who knows how long. You drag the sieve through the water to catch every strand and turn the pasta into the next pan over, into what is more or less a sauce. Sauce enough. Plates are pulled from the cabinet and the kitchen towel is a napkin. When that is done you might think, “you feel like steak? you want some salad?” or you might think you have had enough and just want to go to bed.