He takes a bite and his eyes roll heavenwards. Bringing a hand to his mouth he covers it as if to grasp more fully the flavors that are tumbling around his palate. Sounds evocative of a different sort of pleasure escape his muffled lips and his body seems to melt under the effects of this luscious taste. Watching this reaction with great satisfaction I find that I am beaming uncontrollably.
For me there are only a few greater pleasures than seeing others enjoy my culinary creations. And after much observation and research I know I am not alone in this conviction. We cooks just love seeing people go weak at the knees over something we’ve concocted. Surely it is the same with other creative endeavors: Don’t musicians derive a similar enjoyment from lulling their audience into another, more beautiful world of sound? And don’t dancers wish to captivate your eyes and heart in the arc of their arms? In fact, I would hazard a guess that most people who pursue their passion—whatever that may be—desire to infect others with their own fervent enthusiasm.
It just so happens that my enthusiasm takes the form of pumpkin ravioli, of thyme flecked parsnip puree and towering soufflés, of rich liver pates, salted caramel brownies, cider cooked mussels, bacon wrapped prunes and the list goes on and on. Of course the food itself is only the surface level of pleasure—that vital, tactile work of knives, fire, smell and taste just the peel off the orange. Beneath this outer layer, I love food and cooking because to me there are few activities more life affirming, immediate, and existentially nourishing. In the simplest sense it is a communion.
Food—as delectable and fascinating as it may be—is also the doorway to something less tangible yet no less essential. As the famed food writer M. F. K. Fisher said: “When I write of hunger, I am really writing about love and the hunger for it, and warmth and the love of it and it is all one.”
Madame Fisher, I’m right there with you!
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