I cooked yesterday for the first time in years. I mean cooked, not toasted a Toaster Strudel.

I have to say that I still have the knack. In fact, I kicked ass! (I think that to some degree, kitchen craft comes naturally to me.)

Mom’s come down with a nasty sore throat and dizzying ear infection and I wanted to take care of her. I asked her if a homemade soup sounded good to her and it did. I thought a brothy, vegetabley thing but chicken noodle was too cliche, too generic. The pretentious chef in me wanted something aromatic to clear the sinus cavities and piquant to warm the throat. So I asked her if something Italianish sounded okay. It did. I’d never made such a thing before and am possessed by a DNA which semi-strictly disallows the following of a recipe. So I winged it. Invented.

I bought, chopped, sauteed and simmered the following: organic vegetable broth base, tri-color macaroni, mild ground Italian sausage, light red kidney beans, chayote (a bland green squash; this was a nostalgic entry due to its being a major staple in my Guatemalan diet—there called guisquil—and the first time I’d seen it in grocery store), zucchini, carrot, small white creaming potatoes, hand-crushed cherry tomatoes, roasted red peppers, porcini mushrooms, shallots, fresh oregano, fresh basil, and fresh garlic.

I also bought a loaf of artisanal Morrocan olive bread and put together my best-guess try at a tapanade.

It was definitely an indulgence of time and money, both of which I feel quite short on at the moment, but it was worth it. She liked it. And since it ended up filling two big pots, I took a Tupperware bucketfull and the rest fo the bread to my sister’s family. They liked it, too.

I mention this bout of foodie-ism because I see it as a minor hallmark of my recovery and new lifestyle. Really. Though I enjoy cooking, it’s a low priority for me and since I charge myself with laundry lists of must-dos, should-dos, and to-dos, the time- (and space- and tool-) intensive work of preparing a good meal always got pushed aside. But there was also my lack of home place, and somebody to cook for, and my preoccupation with instant gratification, not to mention aftermaths that precluded everything but certain quick-fix, high-carb, tasty-cheap options. I’m still busy, but there’s something calm, calmer, and calming about dicing, timing, seasoning, and serving. It’s a good thing, like channeling your creativity in a smell-the-roses kind of way (though, I should mention that I think roses are ugly and lilies are cooler), and it’s a good sign.