among other things. went two-steppin’ the other night at the local country/metal bar, which smells of livestock and tequila and is as electric with the naive romance of dance-floor-hopefuls as a high school prom. I was in a foul mood, but watching the pairs sway and spin, all glowing red via the neon beer signs, was, somehow, heartening. humanizing. humbling.
some things just always taste better when someone else makes them. cookies, for instance. a modicum of effort involved, but they’re a quintessential treat. to which you want to be treated.
making cookies is quite gratifying, don’t get me wrong, but isn’t much of the gratification derived by the tactile process, the warm kitchen and the sweet smells, by sharing said cookies with your friends & neighbors? not, in fact, through eating the fruits of your labor and stowing away leftovers for the week to come?
and is it not still more gratifying to eat homemade cookies with no guilt-ridden obligation (read: guilt-ridden desire) to plow through the leftovers, much less deal with the whole ‘tactile process’ song & dance?
tuna salad. tuna salad is something that just tastes better when your mom makes it, or even when you buy it from a deli and eat it out of a plastic tub. is it just too simple to satisfy when tasked with making it oneself? am I, personally, possessing too snobbish a palate to ever achieve pure, unfettered, mayonnaisey tuna salad greatness? always throwing in some boiled potatoes or cannellini beans or a bevy of fresh herbs.
clearly it’s all tied up in a mess of nostalgia, tied to moms and simple pleasures and the freedom to let one’s mind wander while enjoying a tuna sandwich and some cookies, in a reverie of self-involvement. no strings-attached satisfaction. no worries about how the batch came out or the dishes or the leftovers. just, joy.