On Winter

The sun shines dully behind the dense haze of clouds.  One might mistake it for a shrouded full moon except that the clouds diffuse the light across its breadth, forming a smooth, grey-white barrier to the heavens that teases us with the hope of moisture, which the meteorologists pessimistically discredit.  A dusting of old snow still lays over the dessicated grass like a sprinkling of powdered sugar, but the land makes an unappetizing cake--perhaps more like a gingerbread landscape left sitting out all year: a novelty at first, but the pretty green bits have been nibbled away, and it's now too ugly to hold our attraction and is soon ignored.  

Unfortunately, pedestrians cannot ignore the wind that whisks heat from exposed skin and makes it soon redden in the bitter chill.  Walking a mere block even in full winter regalia feels miserable to exposed cheeks and noses, and should one venture farther, the cold quickly eats through one's thinnest fabrics to gnaw fingers and thighs and toes till they grow numb.  In consequence, exercise is more comfortable indoors, assuming one can find the will for it since easier heat can be found by baking or reading by a vent--or better yet, napping under a 50-pound pile of blankets and comforters.

Readers have surely fathomed (if they did not already know) my sentiments on the subject of winter: despite the wintery “charms” that some extoll--and that even I see in glistening ice and unblemished snow (when I don’t have to travel in them)--I wouldn’t complain if I never again stepped into below-sixty-degree weather or saw the hibernating land take on such a death-like pall.  The day we can throw this unsightly gingerbread landscape in the trash cannot come too soon.

On Absentmindedness—My Own and in General

Thursday morning at work, I prepared to fetch our building’s mail and discovered a crinkled sticky note in the drawer beside the mail key.  Curious, I picked it up and immediately recognized the handwriting.  It was my grocery list, which I had found in my coat pocket when I’d started to get the mail the day before, and which I had thought I’d thrown away!  I shared my amusement with my coworker, tossed it as I’d intended, and proceeded to carry a used printer cartridge and some outgoing letters to the Student Union, planning as I walked to take the bulky cartridge box down to the campus store first so I need not carry it farther than necessary—yet I made it past the stairs and down the hall toward the mailboxes before I realized I still had the cumbersome box in my arms!

These are hardly isolated incidents of absentmindedness, nor circumstances restricted to intellectual types like myself; I’ll wager everyone’s nearly put the cereal in the fridge and the milk on the shelf, or another such mix-up.  While insufficient attention may be due to sleepiness, illness, medication, or natural brain structure, the fault in cases like mine is more often distraction with extraneous thoughts, sights, and sounds--or hyperfocus on one task to the detriment others, including mindfulness of one's surroundings.  I theorize (based on personal observation rather than any more-comprehensive scientific method) that most of us go through a majority of the day on autopilot so as to free our brains for other ruminations: observations about the sparrows in the bushes, plans for dinner, speculation about plot developments in last night’s tv show, and of course, daydreams about saving the world (or a town, or a beau, or maybe just a cat) from certain destruction.  Now what was I originally writing about?  Oh, yes—absentmindedness.

Most people can do two complementary activities competently, such as washing dishes and talking, or listening and taking notes (though someone with a learning disability may only be able to do one at a time), and in this division of thought, one or the other may get shortchanged, resulting in mental slips or “crossed wires.”  For instance, we may eat more than we intended because our minds have focused on what we’re reading or watching, or we may write what we overhear someone say instead of what our minds planned to write.

I feel I must sidetrack here to make a distinction: Complementary activities differ somewhat from multitasking, which is when a person quickly alternates between multiple tasks that each requires most that person’s cognition and attention.  For example, one might be scripting in a computer language while following the plot of a tv show and maintaining an IM conversation and an occasional face-to-face conversation.  The complementary example of washing dishes and talking truly can be done simultaneously because one action—typically the physical task—happens automatically, guided by muscle memory and subconscious thought, while the other task takes up the bulk of the person’s conscious thoughts.  However, in this multitasking example, the brain can only focus on one at a time and must restart and refocus on each separate task—sometimes so quickly they seem simultaneous, but that is not the case, and the brain may refocus incompletely so that, in the end, all tasks take longer to complete and are prone to confusion and error.  This is why we’re advised not to text or talk on cell phones when we drive—because fiddling with the phone uses the mental energy that we expend to monitor our mental autopilot, thus decreasing our powers of observation and our reaction time and, conversely, increasing our chance of getting into accidents.  Complementary activities are likewise prone to error—particularly when our conscious mind stops monitoring our autopiloted actions.  Thus, mental abstraction from tasks results in our autopilot driving us to work when we wanted to go to the store or locking our keys in the house when we merely step out to check the mail.

Abstraction can certainly cause problems, but at certain times, it is a desirable state of mind, particularly during life’s inevitable moments of tedium such as may come during periods of waiting or repetition.  Regarding the latter, I will not here expound upon the benefits or detriments of following a routine, but we all know that despite how our daily details may vary, we do have routines--places we frequent, habitual gestures, methods of completing individual tasks from brushing teeth to shoveling snow, and so on.  Furthermore, our schedules tend to remain steady from day to day, week to week, or year to year.  Yet despite the human proclivity to develop habits and our preference for constancy—so comforting in their stability and familiarity—William Cowper said it well that “Variety’s the very spice of life / that gives it all its flavor” (from “The Task”).  The mind craves this variety to feed its creativity and sate its desire for mental stimulation to keep life from becoming stale to us.  Thus, if one’s routine and circumstances prevent much external diversity of occupation, the only remaining source of diversity is internal, and this source is by no means deficient, for one can never claim to be bored who has an intelligent, active mind; reason and imagination can supply both occupation and entertainment during every long delay and every tedious task.  While sitting still or laboring on a simple and familiar physical task, people can engage their mental autopilot, freeing their minds to think or their mouths to talk as they act—except for the small part of the conscious mind that observes one’s surroundings as a safety monitor and draws the conscious mind’s attention when something deviates from what it expects.

    Thus, absentmindedness is fun and relatively harmless excursion from reality--when permitted in a safe environment while the body performs safe and relatively unimportant tasks--but when careless errors may lose us our dignity, our safety, our job, or especially others’ lives, it’s better to keep our minds on the task at hand.

On Adventures in Cooking

People often travel to foreign countries, go backpacking, or conduct science experiments to enjoy the fear and excitement that comes from exploring new vistas.  For me, such experiences hold more fear than excitement and more discomfort than enjoyment; instead, I find my preferred mix of these sensations by trying new recipes in the kitchen.

                As when taking a trip, embarking upon a new recipe involves risk; a failure could waste time and ingredients, but a success could widen one’s repertoire of healthful dishes and introduce a new source of olfactory and gustatory delight.  (Such a fun word, gustatory!)  While recommendations and clear directions may ease our concern somewhat, differences in personal taste keep us slightly on edge, as does the newness of the process, knowing that we might misinterpret some vital instruction, that a substitution for an unusual ingredient may not work quite right, or that our off-brand products could throw off the taste or texture.  I failed horribly when I attempted to make flaky croissants—perhaps I needed more butter between the layers—and my tough jelly-filled pastries weren’t anything like I expected.  I haven’t attempted to make them since, but I have continued to branch out in other respects.  Learning to make tamagoyaki—a sweet-and-savory rolled omelet—was a stimulating challenge, especially the novel technique of cooking with chopsticks as my sole utensil.  I still find the challenge of rolling the omelet without tearing the layers quite invigorating, and it’s been a great success with my husband.

Just as the risks change whether one ventures into the next town verses the next country, trying variations on familiar recipes feels far more comfortable than trying completely unfamiliar dishes—especially when we’ve never tasted the dish prepared by a professional.   Since I dislike the texture of eggs, I’ve never tasted the aforementioned tamagoyaki, so making it for my husband was doubly risky, and I was prepared to throw it out if he disliked it.  On the other hand, I can usually see just from reading the recipe whether we’ll like a new variation on familiar dishes like meatballs or stroganoff; I can be sure of its being tasty and only risk its being slightly less tasty than our usual recipes. 

A traveler may accidentally take the “scenic route” and discover something great, and in the same way, a cook may accidentally make a cooking mistake and invent a delightful concoction.  The error may come in many ways; I’ve sometimes started a recipe only to find out I’m out of this ingredient or that.  Other times, I have misread tsp and TBSP or mixed up the directions and realized the mistake a moment after the error had become irreversible.  Attempts to use substitutions or re-purpose ingredients for a different recipe have at times necessitated regrettable wastefulness, but at other times they’ve created a surprisingly pleasant product.  For instance, I accidentally doubled certain ingredients and not others while making chicken pot pie but, realizing it tasted a bit like I imagined a nicely thick potato soup would, I experimented by adding water, potatoes, celery, and other such ingredients, and decided I rather liked the effect.  It has needed very little adjustment since that first attempt, and I still enjoy making (and eating!) it every now and then. 

In a similar deviation from established recipes, like any scientist in a lab or artist in a studio, I’m sure every experienced cook has experimented in the kitchen.  We wonder, “is this step really necessary?” or “how would adding this ingredient or changing the timing alter the outcome?”  Our experiments lead us to discover the effects of baking powder, soda, eggs, and various fats, and to learn what temperatures will cook a certain food thoroughly without drying or burning.  This knowledge makes future experiments more successful as we understand what combinations will create which effects.  Further study in books or by word of mouth teach us techniques with foil and forks and the like that help us make an experimental recipe more successful.  It was in this way, by experimenting, that I taught myself to make a lovely clear soup out of whatever I have on hand or whatever combination strikes my fancy—vegetables, chicken, noodles or rice, and so on—and I can mix and match spices to complement the main ingredients with increasing success.  Similarly, I once had some leftover sopapilla dough and decided to experiment with making baklava based only on my rudimentary knowledge that it comprised layers of paper-thin pastry separated by butter and honey and cinnamon.  The baked result wasn’t baklava—not nearly as thin, flaky, or sticky sweet—but it did taste rather good, and I wouldn’t be adverse to making it again.  

Other times, experimentation comes out of necessity rather than curiosity: I had to experiment with the way I made nikumanji (meat buns) so that the buns wouldn’t stick to the bamboo steamer and tear open when removed; little squares of wax paper underneath each bun keeps them intact and still allows the steam to reach each one.  Similarly, my first attempts at frying spring rolls and sopapillas were generally successful but required some experimentation with the heat, timing, and methods of retrieval from the oil to get the best result.  Despite the challenge (or in addition to the challenge), watching the sopapillas rise and the pastry's color change remains a rather fun experience.

What does all this say about those who find such wonder in the kitchen?  That we’re domestic?  That we’re easily pleased?  That our world is small and cramped?  The former two may have merit, and I consider them positive traits in any person.  However, the latter cannot necessarily be true since cooks, like any other person, may extend their delight of exploration to other fields.  Even if they are homebodies, though, in the same way we take vicarious adventures while reading books, cooks can vicariously experience the practices of foreign kitchens and explore the tastes of different cultures.  This, and the natural desire to feed other people with the product of our labor, gives us cause to expand our "cramped" world.  Thus, if other forms of exploration don’t lie within our budget or interests, instead, we can expand our experiences by diving into new forms of cooking.  Each discovery of a culinary treasure among the flood of recipes will make it worth the risk and effort!