An essay describing a cook's passion.
| As the light fell on my face, I knew another day had come to shine my little light. I wake up each morning with one and the same nursery rhyme: this little light of mine. It's Monday again and like everyone else, I have a job, one which I cherished.
I got to work and took my place in the kitchen, ready to create. Like an artist, I thought of colours that sit well together in the plate, like a doctor, I thought of the consumer. What shall I add, what shall I reject? At what temperature shall I cook this meal? Questions I ask myself daily. I know the wonders of garlic, the importance of tomatoes, the value of parsley. I also know the quantity required to make a sumptuous and healthy meal. Like a pharmacist, I measure, mix, prepare and serve. Recipes for cold, fever, constipation, anaemia and the likes, I know them at my fingertip. Like stockbroker, I manage what goes into the stomach, letting people know what they should eat and why. Like a magician, I conjure tastes that tantalize the taste buds.
Although people think less of me, they cherish the works of my hands. In a pot of simmering beef, thinly sliced onions, surrounding the beef on every side, allowing the onion taste to penetrate.Maggi crushed into fine pieces, adding flavour. O salt, my dear salt, without it, every other spice will be asleep. She awakens them, motivates them to action, completing the chemical equation. Then comes the aroma, the aroma, awakening the salivary glands, signaling the enzymes in the stomach, making the mouth watery and wanting.
O what beautiful art, pleasant to the eye and sumptuous to the belly, what other art could be compared to it, at most the effects stop at the eye level. O how amazing to see leaves, roots and raw products transform into edibles...
I love my job, I am a cook.