I’ve spent much of the last two days on my feet cooking. Good cooking, like good writing, is an art-form. Though I am no chef I seem to have a much easier time coming up with tasty and unique dishes than I do coming up with interesting and original prose. I tend to cook by the seat of my pants – choosing ingredients based on mood and personal preference rather than from a recipe. While I will occasionally refer to a recipe for the basic set up of a meal, I almost always end up customising it to suit mine or my husband’s taste. This kind of behaviour would have some people I know accusing me of being one of those impulsive creative types who can’t follow instructions. All true. But my creative cooking is never without purpose. I like to bend tradition, to come up with unlikely combinations of food – like mixing Persian with other international flavours – to test my own wits in the kitchen. Whenever I discover a tasty dish at a restaurant I will always try it at home, adapting it of course. I can’t always recreate the atmosphere, or the exact flavour, but the process and sometimes the result is rewarding.
So my list of accomplishments this week is: Persian paste for marinating chicken, my own version of basil pesto (using home grown ingredients) and jam. Today I made mixed berry jam (boysenberry, raspberry, strawberry and cherry) and a blackberry jam.
If I could only apply this enthusiasm to writing, that novel would be “cooked” in no time.