I've been in recovery for almost a full year now. My knee is still swollen but I walk with a relatively normal canter and the scars are fully healed. Some barely visible and others slightly raised above the skin. And I’m really just trying to keep myself busy. Just trying to focus on not being wounded or better yet proving to myself that I’m recovered. That I’m not lazily wandering the halls of my dads house, some lost soul, a ghost of my quarter life crisis. I'm staying busy by constantly calling out for my purpose. It's crouched below the bushes of my productivity. It's disguised as “I’m working on myself.” I stay busy by cooking. Like when I’m home alone and can control what I consider to be a beautiful production of chaos. Chaos like flour dusting my apron, grease splattering the surrounding stove top. Chaos like rushing to open the kitchen window to air out smoke and grated parmesan on the kitchen counter.
A few weeks ago my dad was out of town and the hollow house was filled with my frantic and determined cooking. This mania is the dividing line in the sand between having no direction and being on my righteous path. Come the apocalypse when all of society will struggle with its purpose outside of capitalism, trust that I will be there, standing tall and speaking with conviction, “you can't kill me, I can cook!” My cooking keeps me moving. I'm moving and I'm standing and my brain is engaged so no I'm not some waste of space. And what do I do with what I cook? Well I show it off. I pull out a digital camera that I don't know how to use. I set a fake table for a fake lunch and take sunny photos and it's all worth my time because it'll go on the internet and people can look and say “well yes, she's busy, she's working, she's cooking.” And no, no one has asked me to cook for them but it doesn't matter because I end up with so much food that I will just give it out for free. I take it to the physical therapy office and to my friends. I talk about my food with people who I hope to impress because what's more impressive than constantly cooking?
I don't need to grapple with the multitude of ego deaths that one experiences with a debilitating injury. Or the friends I don’t have anymore. Or how I lost my perfect little apartment and my world of temporary independence. I don’t have to think about how I’m falling behind or losing time stepping into the world as a self actualized person in her 20’s. I don’t have to grapple with the fear that emerges in my chest when I imagine a scary man following me down the street and not physically being able to run away. A scary man or a demon or a bear or a ghoul or honestly just a man. I don’t have to think about how my knee would buckle from under me, the panic would rise to a hot burning in my throat and all I would be able to do is scream. No, no, I don’t think about any of that. I peel, and chop, and saute, and stand over a stock and skim the foam away and because I'm cooking and that means I'm ok! I don't think about how I will probably need a knee replacement when I'm older or how I keep having flashbacks to what I smelled like in the days after surgery. How I smelled of piss and sweat and damp sheets. No no, I don't have to think about any of that because at this moment, I smell caramel. I smell crisp apples and butter and sugar because I'm baking and I'm cooking and I'm staying busy. I'm worth something because I will slice apples and place them aesthetically into a bundt pan and, after about 50 minutes of baking, reveal a beautifully caramelized apple cake. I focus on the smell of red wine deglazing the pan and the tomato sauce that I've tended to delicately until its bright red color turns to a rusted brown. Everything is ok. It's ok because I'm cooking and if something comes out wrong or just not perfect I will cook it again. And again. I will keep going until it's flawless so that I can look someone in the eye and say, see!? I have potential! Don't lose patience with me just yet. Don't turn away, the best of me is yet to come. I’ve added more salt and the fat has been rendered from my existence. I’m reducing my potential down to a potent glaze. You'll see me and see the work that has gone in. You'll want to pay a pretty penny for it. You’ll taste it and forget to complain about rising food costs. I keep cooking and I hope it means I’m improving. I’ll keep cooking and healing and getting stronger and I know this because I made a damn cake.
I'm not cut out for a desk job. I couldn't just babysit because I suspect that sometimes kids look at me and can tell I have a complicated relationship with maternity. And dogs require long walks. I’ll keep following my gut, my intensity, my still developing prefrontal cortex. There's no selling my soul to some solar panel pyramid scheme in my path. No. I open my eyes and think about breakfast. I close them and dream of cooking a six-course meal. The leaves just changed and when the first cold morning hits I start to plan Thanksgiving dinner. My friend tells me she hates pumpkin pie and I take this as a challenge. I take it as a personal offense. I will make a pumpkin pie so good she reaches for seconds. She’ll ask to take some home. Why do I do this? No one asked me to. She did not burden me with this responsibility and yet I jumped at the opportunity to make something. To labor over pastry dough and ratios of a custard base. If I can manage to change her mind about a pie that's not even one of my favorites then maybe I can prove how valuable I am. I prove to her and to myself that the years of experience weren’t for nothing. I went to school for this, I worked myself to the bone for this, I live for this. I know this because I can change someone’s mind about pumpkin pie. It can be done. I've already convinced her of apple cake.
And when I lose myself again. When I'm heartbroken or just depressed. When I'm grieving or when I’m catatonic with anxiety. When I'm wallowing in my sorrow or sitting with some indescribably rage. At some point in my busy schedule of internal wandering, I will get peckish. I’ll want a snack or have a craving. I’ll need a hot meal. I’ll walk to the kitchen and I’ll start cooking.
Caramelized Apple Cake
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