Austin — I do my practice tonight while pacing the kitchen, listening to the sounds of dinner in pan.
It starts out as the slightest intervention in the quiet momentum of the day, barely audible, as yet unpenetrating, reminding me to have patient tolerance for the unspectacular moments of creation.
Then individual dots of sizzle percolate as if the parts most eager for heat get theirs first.
This audible enjoyment beckons the rest of the meal downward to the flame. Soon the percolations are plentiful and blend into a chorus, forgetting themselves. I’m hearing a bell curve of sonic emergence where the food and the pan reach a peak, becoming one.
This is my meal, this practice, and I cook every single day.