Cook – HARLAN DIDRICKSON

It’s been going on for five days now, minute by minute mood swings making me feel like a shooting gallery duck; dense anxiety like heavy fog, and a degree of indecision that stops my movement like a pause button.

For instance, this morning I couldn’t decide between chocolate milk or hot chocolate, behaving like the child at the soda fountain musing over nuts or no nuts. Ten minutes of my partner hustling through the house when at last he stopped, uttered some variation on a familiar expletive, poured a tall glass of cool milk, dumped the equivalent of a chocolate cake into the milk, dropped in a spoon, spun it about without dissolving anything causing it to resemble a freshly unplugged toilet, then brusquely presented it as though I was a fussy child, followed by that variant expletive and walked into the backyard.

I ask, is this the behavior of a fifty-five year old man, highly educated, and graced with an innate aptitude for johnny-on-the-spot decisions?

hammer Today was the first day of my 96 hour ride on the infamous carnival ride, The Hammer, in which you swing forward and back forward and back, etc. Today was also the first time of my 96 hour disturbing mental yo-yo that the Midway seemed like an appropriate place to live. I’d fit in quite nicely with the Fun House, the Freak Show, ping-pong ball goldfish toss, and the notorious ring the Coke bottle.

But there’s been nothing amusing about my minute-to-minute change in behavior, the confusion which renders me speechless, the marathon of apologies, emptiness to the depth of a wino’s bottle, and then a creeping attack of self-doubt, self-worth, even writing was tortuous (when I suppose its most honest. Did you ever have those days when you wished they speed past like flashcards? It’s only until that damned disappointing sun, weak incapable of tossing out a solar flare and incinerating the cloud cover that I felt calm. No more staring into a day of gray disappointment. grayday

Night time is the best time for me. Inside the house is quiet and familiar like an old dog and outside is awash in black and could be anywhere in the world.

Yesterday, upon postponement of our midday amble amidst a cathedral’s canopy due to the dowdiest of freshly fallen autumn afternoons, a cozy dinner might divert the chilly woes of premature dusks. Noting that a fresh fall ousted a sapped summer, I bought a trimmed pork loin from my butcher and fresh root veggies. Antecedently and focusing on forecasts, I foretold of a cagey fall; its entrance behind a skedaddling summer!

Hedging my premonition of summer at noon pursued by the sharp, shivery, and grim character of a wily autumn, I remained home with my loin; I would prepare a French Provençal pork loin braised in red wine and entrapped by fresh, roasted autumn root vegetables.

The grievous and ghastly responsibility of restoring purity and sublimity to a kitchen struck by volley’s of mortar fire, would be nothing short of miraculous (or, if no miracles are available, allot three hours)! Having peculiar habits when cleansing my knives and cutting boards, only I appreciate and comprehend the intricacy of the five separate operations which assures a chef that his tools are prepared for their next challenge.

But what I truly enjoy most, more than double-butterflying the roast, more than preparing the veggies, more than effortlessly carving the roast, even more than savoring my meal. What I enjoy most is soaping up the cutting boards, then watching the suds as I’m rinsing.

It resembles the foam, the final stretch of a wave on a sandy beach. It’s that image, barefoot in sand and retreating ocean which makes all else rewarding.