Olives and Individuals

What makes an individual? 

The smell of our cologne?  A social security number?  I think we are what makes us happy and how we spend our time.

There’s a room in my house that embodies who I am.  Recently, my boyfriend and I used it to create a gourmet treat.  We weighed out Kalamata olives (a half-pound) and felt giddy.  Our mission: to make Olive Tapenade.

Afterwards, I spent the whole week telling everyone about the taste.  It gives me such I high, the whole food making process.  Every time someone looks bored with my food stories, I think, “But cooking is so much a part of me.  I have to tell you about it.”

I didn’t have to fall in love with cooking.   My family counted spices as salt, ketchup, maybe pepper and if we were really living it up, a jar of fourteen-year-old onion powder.  That onion powder sat in a rarely used cabinet and I’m surprised it didn’t plot to kill us over the long months while we ignored it.

As I was opening a new tube of anchovy paste, I thought, “So why is cooking so important to me?”  It would be simple to say I love food.  But I love clothes and didn’t become an amateur tailor.

First, I like cooking shows: innocent, filled with personality and scientific.  Scientific?  Yeah, just try to fry some chicken without oil and you will see chemistry in action, burning the white off your bird. 

Second, cooking is so useful.  Whereas with crocheting, I figure I can only make so many gift sweaters, I can always find a reason to cook.  I mean, I’m always hungry. 

Third, cooking satisfies some of my wanderlust.  I can’t often get on a plane, but after a meal of raw tuna and salty edamame, I can almost taste Tokyo.

So when my boyfriend squeezed lemon into our food processor and I added two tablespoons of capers, I wasn’t just making an exotic spread for toast.  I was fulfilling some deep aspects of my personality.

I also got to eat Olive Tapenade on crusty rolls with goat cheese and ripe tomatoes.  Not a bad outlet for self-expression. 

Finally, my love of cooking allows me to spend a happy day in the kitchen with my guy: making memories, stocking our refrigerator and stuffing our faces.  And there’s not much more me than that.