A Thank You Note to Cooking: 

When my mind feels clogged

with heavy layers of 

suffocating foggy thoughts,

the slow-burning heat from the 

stove top-lit cast iron frying pan 

alleviates my steam.

Recalling back to when I was much younger, 

I used to watch my mom cook dinner every night,

standing behind her on my step stool

that just barely allowed my line of eyesight to reach 

the flame of the front burner. 

My eyes would

dart back and forth, zig-zag, cross, and track

each and every moment she made.

For only thirty to sixty minutes each evening 

our kitchen turned into a controlled manic tornado. 

When she used a sturdy, dull knife to chop, dice, or mince...

our bamboo wooden cutting board 

held steadily in place, with the sum of each stroke 

mimicking an obnoxious wood-pecker. 

When she seasoned, it was as if she had the same amount of arms 

as an octopus.

She would always be adding something new, 

trying to figure out the perfect seasoning combinations.  

When it was time to cook the protein, 

the meat would sizzle and pop as soon as it touched the pan.

Flipping it over gave her the most satisfaction,

especially when there was a perfectly golden, crispy sear.  

I fell in love with cooking the more I grew up. 

When the kitchen lights are dim, 

countertops invaded by every ingredient, 

the adrenaline of chopping, stirring, plating everything together, 

rich and savory aromas filling each and every crack of the house, 

I feel most serene.