Eat the Muffin

There is an art to cooking and cleaning that people don’t realize. Although working full-time doesn’t allow me the hours I could readily devote to improving our apartment as much as I would like, I’ve slowly realized it has become a meditative process. I use to fervently clean the area around me before I could write or leisurely do something personally enjoyable.

Piece-mailing tasks doesn’t work. Knowing that one section is completely spotless still leaves you with a billion other to-does that you’ve been meaning to get around to. And it piles so high you can’t see the end.

It’s also true that cleanliness is close to godliness. In the sense of reaching a stage of life free of any obstacle holding you back from fully concentrating on you. Without distractions. Without the thought of “I will do it later.” You have the option to do whatever you choose because there are no distractions. You’ve eliminated them all. Which is why it’s so hard to attain because there is also something left to do. Always.

Cooking seems to have replaced this innate desire for neatness. Clear, concise, and you could clearly see the ends to the means. A lot like writing when you’ve completed a story or series of thoughts. My own creative writing voice often comes in the form of stream-of-consciousness. No outlines to know where it should go. No formulaic writing prompts to get the ball rolling. Just free writing that rolls with whatever words come out of one’s head until it’s done.

I tend to cook without a recipe. My parents never did and in pure irony I never watched them cooked. It’s better that way, I find, to take ingredients, a bit of salt, a pinch of pepper (always pepper), and hope that it tastes great. What baffles me is that it always does. It amazes me that sprinkle of salt over vegetables can add flavor to a dish. I’m also never sure what I’m making. Only that I “think” it will taste good. However there is always something missing; an ingredient that should’ve made it better. When it comes to writing or editing, I’m never satisfied and everything needs at least a revision--whether I like it or not.

It pains me in a way, knowing this epiphany.

I have watched and sometimes helped my mother bake. Baking is often tricky because one needs to follow a recipe to the T lest you end up with something unappetizing. Last night I baked muffins and made several mistakes. I grated zucchini with the small grater before using the larger one. I mixed sugar with all the dry ingredients when it should’ve been with vanilla, zucchini and eggs. There was more nutmeg than cinnamon due to a miscalculation of stock. At the last minute, I added chocolate chips because there was a bag I had been meaning to use. When the batter looked too thick, I ceremoniously poured milk in splashes.

All the while I never thought about whether it would turn out edible or not. I was simply enjoying the process of baking and adding as needed because it “felt right.”

Although my husband is happy to taste test anything, I still find his opinion was biased and has the obligation to say “it tastes delicious.” Only when I shove the other half my mouth in one go that I see all the mistakes like Auntie Lindo. Too dry. Too cakey. Needed to add more milk. Maybe walnuts for a slight crunch. While I kept denying it, he kept saying not to beat myself up over it. Which is something I still have to learn to accept when it comes to writing.

You are your own harshest critic and will never be satisfied.

Accept it. Move on. Eat the muffin.

It’s going to taste good no matter what you do. Unless you accidentally add baking soda instead of baking powder.

I still feel that if I start a creative piece I’ll just see the endless plotlines that I’m unsure what to choose. There are too many holes and details to figure out. Not enough time to actually figure them out. I won’t learn until I actually commit thought to paper.

Otherwise it’s just vegetables and spices on a countertop with a cutting board and knives. Just rotting until I do.