What's Cooking?

When the weather is bad (oh, hey, Tropical Storm Lee!), or when times are stressful (oh, hey, last 24-36 hours!), I am typically overcome by a massive urge to create in the kitchen.

(Before I delve too far into this, let me preface the entire blog post by saying the following: I am not a good cook. Now, if you want sweets, I am your girl; I remember making lemon loves out of the Cotton Country cookbook on a stool at the hunting camp. I was on a stool because the counter was too high. However, if you want food that doesn't have enough sugar in it to kill a non-diabetic, you may seek sustenance elsewhere. There, I said it.)

Yesterday afternoon, while O locked himself in our room and howled at the iPad ("SKOP IT!!! NO!!!!"), I gave up and came to the computer. I began searching for recipes based solely on what my stress wanted at the time. I am quite the emotional eater, for what it's worth. It started with enchiladas.

Enchiladas gave way to beef and bean enchiladas, steak enchiladas, but finally became honey lime chicken enchiladas. HONEY. LIME. CHICKEN. ENCHILADAS. PEOPLE. With cheese. And heavy cream.

HEAVY. CREAM.

I found a post by a jolly mom-chef and shared it with my pregnant friend, who declared it just the thing. You can find that post here.

This morning, the loaf of italian bread I'd purchased on Thursday was just right to meet its destiny. Vanilla bean french toast with homemade strawberry sauce. Just in case you have no pulse, I'll sum it up for you - it's amazing. Sizzling butter helps mix with the eggy parts to form a crunchy exterior. Toss on a little more butter, some powdered sugar, and a spoonful of strawberry sauce, and it's almost as satisfying as a trip to Cafe du Monde or a nice box of Shipley's Donuts. (Only from Monroe, LA. Trust me on this one. The other Shipley's are imposters.)

I don't know why cooking helps me so much; particularly since I don't excel at it. I think that it's the sense of creating order from chaos - the flurry of activity in the house and kitchen gives way to something at least moderately tasty. Something that helps me (if no one else, as they're all picky) to breathe a sigh of contentment and stand back up, ready to handle the day. I can look at the plate of french toast (and hopefully, the pan of enchiladas) and see achievement.

I choose the one thing that was accomplished over the pile of dishes that led to its birth, just as I ignore the tsunami of toys that washes over the living room several times a day. Instead, I focus on the smiles, and the lines, and the stacks created by the small imps in the room.

Achievement and creation out of chaos. As I bite into my hot french toast, I can assure you, it's a much better way to see the world - and yourself.