On any given day there is one thing I
do which is at once the most challenging and the most rewarding. It
is the thing that makes motherhood difficult for some and impossible
for others. It taxes the inner strength of anyone who confronts this
challenge and it gives back more than ample payment for the effort.
It is so frightening to some people that they would rather suffer
almost any inconvenience instead of confronting it. I'm talking
about the monster (I mean the art) of making dinner.
On the surface, making dinner doesn't
sound like much, but to anyone who has had to do it on anything like
a regular basis, it can present an almost insurmountable obstacle to
peace and happiness. In my experience, the routine goes something
like this: Four o'clock rolls around and my stomach starts telling
me it's time to get something going. I look around for ingredients
and find that there is little or nothing of use to me. I have some
basic things but nothing special. I start thinking of all the things
we have had that week and what we might have, that won't sound like
'the same old thing'. Suddenly, five o'clock arrives and I still
don't have a plan. No new ingredients have shown up, the clock seems
to be ticking loudly now and panic sets in. “What are we going to
have for dinner?” I shout to no one in particular (for some
reason, saying this loudly makes me feel marginally better). Then I
start to get serious. I know that at least six people are going to
show up in my kitchen in the next half hour and wonder what I am
making that might possibly satisfy the hunger that has been building
in them over the entire afternoon of work or play. At this point, I
frantically rack my brain for ideas, wondering how I'm going to pull
a rabbit out of my hat this time. I try to sit calmly in a chair,
cook book in hand, and meditate on the myriad possibilities. Some of
us like one thing, some like another; some will eat certain greens,
other won't touch them; some like it hot, some like it cold; but none
of them like it in the pot nine days old. Panic turns to desperation
when I start reciting nursery rhymes! My next impulse is to curl up
into fetal position and cry like a baby. Then, in a moment of
clarity and as if by magic, an idea drops out of the air. The room
seems to light up as I realize that this idea will save the day since
I happen to have all the ingredients I need. It will also satisfy
even the picky eaters and it doesn't take all night to make! Then, I
make dinner (whew!).
If this sounds familiar to you, you
know what I mean when I say that cooking dinner is perhaps the
hardest part of parenthood. After about ten years of this I began to
wonder why this should be and have finally come to the conclusion
that it is because making dinner is (or should be) an act of
creativity. This sounds simple enough, but understand, we live in a
world where creativity is dying all around us. I have lamented for a
long time that in the movie industry (or any industry) it is
extremely rare to see an original creative idea. This is the age of
the re-make. For instance, how many Star Trek movies are they going
to make, anyway? In a world of instant food, instant gratification,
instant music, instant entertainment, instant technology and even
instant relationships, is it any wonder that the act of creativity,
which requires thought, effort, time and a degree of inspiration, is
falling by the wayside?
Creativity rewards the diligent with
the fruits of satisfaction with one's self and contentment with life;
or you might say, self-esteem and happiness. Nothing is free. You
get what you pay for. If you want internal, mental, emotional
rewards you have to invest internal, mental and emotional energy.
Today it has become all too easy to buy everything. So, instead of
making dinner, we buy pre-packaged, processed, prepared foods: no
thought, effort or creativity required. It sounds easy, but the
catch is, if you put nothing in, you get nothing out. There are no
emotional rewards for a quick fix. When I do dinner or art or life
with thought, diligence and creativity I am amply rewarded for my
effort. When I don't, there is no amount of aspirin that can make up
for how bad I feel.
