Early this morning, groggy with sleep, I had the greatest idea on what to post on this blog for this week. It was one of those moments of unique inspiration that grips you with such voracity that even the great Shakespeare would be put to shame. Ideas flowed through my head, tugging at my brain here and there, screaming for me not to visit the sandman. Great recipes that would have made the banquets of royalty have been spelled out right before me, in it’s neatest format, ready to be written down. An involvement of vegan dishes and what role they played in society. As for that, veganism and vegetarianism is a preference, like we prefer dark meat over white meat. To each his own. Cauliflower as if by some ethereal imagery danced before me before being plunged into of olive oil with slivers of garlic and chili pepper and chopped up broccoli sprouts. Then stuffed into cannelloni tubes and laid out over fresh tomato sauce and lemon juice. Stage left and copious amounts of creme fraiche are poured over the pasta, with parmiggiano falling so delicately on the top, like fresh snow in November covering the undulating hills of your favorite sledding playground. Distant smells triggered the images to be place in the oven until golden brown, my eyes all this time struggling to close, only to be yanked open to feast on the al forno that could be. Sleep. Come to me.
Before I could partake in the luxury of blissful dozing, after having struggled in the limbo between dreams and wakefulness, my half dilated vision caught sight of the myriad of cooking books that I have yet to lay my pen to, the images of great dishes that should be immortalized and shared with the rest of the world. Contents of the books that would grip the culinary world by its cholesterol choked heart strings, shake the very foundation of conventional thinking, redefining glorious moments in culinary history. A tome on the benefits of the humble bitter gourd, despite popular evasion. The durian and its place in the annals of flavors that is yet to be tapped and exploited to such common mediocrity eliminating its uniqueness in the first place. How cooking is bastardized at the local McDonald’s, and the eventual revolt against their philosophy of food and imagery of inherent ineptitude of what sustenance should be. Thousands of solutions to what a turkey should be basted when roasting, then dissolving into where I should plot a vegetable garden, what should go in it, where the hell will I get the seedlings for those purple potatoes. Fresh ripe tomatoes that could be culled and served with really nice fresh lemon fruit. How call center agents live through their day feasting on instant noodles and blood pressure inducing amounts of cheap coffee. Why would they subject themselves to nasty food and meager sustenance in the middle of the night with the rest of the world slumbering and dreaming of what the morn brings. Then a scribble, a passage in a book that presented a haiku in a ten-syllable-too-much form that really explained where I am now:
“I have always Known
that at last I Would
TaKe this road. But yesterDaY
I did not KnoW that it WoulD be today”
It is that last thought that remains in my memory of this morning, before falling into the abyss of what would promise to be the prelude to what a great life should be. Those ideas are now eluding me, disappearing into white puffs of oblivion. I reach out to them, only to evaporate and flow as mercurial wisps through my gnarled fingers. Forgive my prose, but it would give you insight on what I believe how great thinkers in our time would experience epiphany in sleep or just waking moments from sleep. Unfortunately, that title has yet to be bestowed upon me by the greatest chefs. Words fail me.