An epiphany

epiphany (noun):  
a sudden, intuitive perception of or insight into the reality or essential meaning of something, usually initiated by some simple, homely, or commonplace occurrence or experience.

It happened this morning, when I was vigorously cleaning the b&b apartment in preparation for today's two groups of guests. But I suppose I could trace it back to the chunk of pecorino Romano and gorgonzola I bought from the supermarket yesterday and to the parmigiano reggiano purchased from the lady at the nearby grocery store, to Lucky Peach magazine and to Tampopo, the 1985 Japanese movie classic about ramen. There was also the fantastic Vogue profile on Michelle Obama, in which it was mentioned that she had arranged for the country's National Park Service to care for her White House garden after the Obamas leave, and secured US$2.5 million in private funding to cover the costs, as well as my disgust at Trump getting elected and all that noise, all those opinions.

I don't want to earn money through writing shit I don't believe in anymore. I want to make a honest living. Walk away from each day feeling tired but gratified. I want to cook for people. 

I have never cooked so much in my life, and I find myself enjoying it, truly enjoying it. The Artist is a good gauge of what I do well. He's Italian, which means he's fussy as fuck about what he eats, but he is willing to eat whatever I make, probably partly out of love and likely also because me cooking = him not having to. Still, there is a marked difference at which the dish is polished off and the enthusiasm at asking for seconds or thirds. I find myself gunning for that telltale lurking hint of a smile and the "ohhh, yes" when I ask if he wants another helping. I also cook for the two dogs, and I'm telling you, even watching them gobble up their mushy chicken pasta and licking their bowls spanking clean deliver immense satisfaction because they definitely do not have the same level of eagerness for dry food and, dare I say it? for the Artist's cooking. 

Last night, I watched Tampopo while slurping up a ramyun-army stew hack (chicken broth, cabbage, potato, hot dogs, cheese slices, wobbly egg). It was food porn, as in, there was a scene that truly qualified as porn with food, and it was fantastic. Plus, no one makes obsessive one-dish food movies like the Japanese.

After that, I went on a reading spree on the Lucky Peach site. There are many reasons why it's my favourite magazine, but it boils down to this: It's that satisfied smile as you rub your stomach and stretch back on the chair after eating something really good that cuts through all that fancy bullshit. But I digress. There was a piece in particular that struck a deeper chord than the rest, about teaching food and gender studies at Yale, and how cooking is enjoyable ultimately because it is about connections. 

When I hesitated between the pre-grated industrial grana padano and parmigiano reggiano before looking lost at the cheese counter and finally going up to the lady at the grocery store to ask if she has the cheese in fresh blocks (I loathe pre-grated cheese), she told me the grana is cheaper and the parmigiano has a stronger taste, which would I like? That night, I finally did something I should have done a long time ago, considering how much time I've spent in Italy. I googled Italian cheeses and made a list of those in the Veneto region, where I am, so I may pick them up the next time I hit the stores. 

Food is the answer. Those were the exact words that came to me while I was vacuuming. What good are words these days, when people only read what validates their views and opinions? More crucially, what can I write that can be of value in this world saturated with travel experience pieces? Writing about my travels, what do I have to say that is not masturbatory? I have been thinking about that for so long. Every single time someone tells me I should blog about my travels, I think, but what do I have to say?

Food, though. Everyone needs to eat. From those who voted to retain their privileged existence to those who are struggling to make ends meet. Eating bridges cultural divides and differences between, or at least that is what I naively choose to think.  

I want to cook for the everyman. I want to figure out how I can afford to use decent ingredients to cook good, healthy meals on the cheap for people who think eating better is beyond their means. I want to learn to make one Singapore dish really, really well, and I want that to go around the world with that. I want to cook a whole chicken or an entire fish for people who are used to eating only breast slabs or skinless filets, so people recognise the animal they are eating, recognise that a being died for their pleasure, so that they may appreciate it and not take it for granted, be less wasteful. I want people to sit around a table eating something strange and foreign to them and all of us can then talk and laugh about and discuss differences and diversity.

I am an improvisational cook. I like to use whatever is at hand and to tweak existing recipes and methods to suit those ingredients. What this means is that I need to learn to cook, properly. I need to expand my basic culinary skill set so I may get creative around them and still respect the proper traditions.

This is going to be a long and hard journey. Already Artist has expressed much cautiousness amidst his vague, general support for my epiphany. He thinks it's an impulse and a fleeting idea I haven't thought through. 

Now that I have told him, I will have to do it.