Something happened in my kitchen yesterday. Granted, it wasn't as pretty as the meal I'd made a few months ago (see photo), but it was pretty beautiful, nonetheless. With the low angle of mid-afternoon sunlight coming through the window, I was watching the cardinals at the feeder while peeling potatoes over the sink. Neat piles of diced onions, sliced carrots and slivered celery awaited their starchy cousin.
It was a small, quiet moment and I was overcome by the feeling that I'd been there before. In this place, with these things, happy in my prep work.
I don't know much French, but I know that I love mis en place--putting everything in its place. And everything felt like it was in its place, myself included.
I've made hundreds of weekend meals over the years, working alone in the kitchen with some good music playing and Finn watching from his corner. It is an easy, well-loved routine of mine. And that routine found me again, on a bone-chilling Saturday in a brand-new year.
Swimming in the familiar, I somehow couldn't remember the last time I'd made potato soup. The last time I'd stood at the sink on a Saturday or a Sunday and assembled a meal. The last time I'd been awash in a beloved routine.
It made no sense, this feeling. I make meals all the time. I'm in my kitchen, at the sink, opening the fridge, looking out the window several times a day. But there I was, putting on the familiar feeling of deep contentment, wondering how it'd fit as I slipped it over my shoulders.
The whole weekend, really, has been like that. Feeling an old, happy groove, finding a rhythm I'd been missing, synching up with my old self. The last few months have been like watching a television show where the speaker's lips don't match the words. I'd been off just a little and then, yesterday, with cardinals fluttering at the feeder, I caught up with me again.
It was a mis en place moment I hadn't realize I'd been waiting for. And it was delicious.
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