I've been sitting here in my tent trying to come up with a compelling passage about character traits, how strengths bend back upon themselves into weaknesses. I wanted to segue from a consideration of how Odysseus's wily cleverness curdles into hubris -- his tragic flaw that sets into motion so much adventure and calamity. At times, adrift in the wine-dark uncertainty of dinner prep, I find myself spurred on and hindered by an innate sense of urgency.
The articulation of this phrase (and how true it rang) in culinary school was akin to finally receiving a diagnosis for a mysterious chronic condition. Not an entirely threatening one, mind, maybe something like hyper-flexible joints that can benefit you as a gymnast but also can be arthritic. Anyway, my default setting for "sense of urgency" is, like, 8 out of 10 for basically everything. Which is a boon and a curse in the kitchen, and life.
I wish I didn't get so wound-up making vinaigrette for a bunch of rich people on vacation, but it is what it is. It *is* gratifying when my favorite guide thanks me for an on-point meal and relays the (surely figurative) compliment: "They creamed their jeans over the pretzel rolls."
Long weekends are good. I take a break from moodily pacing around the cellar, glowering at swiftly molding vegetables, despairingly brainstorming notes on scraps of paper such as: "hide in ratatouille," "smother into submission," and "pacify with mayo." On weekends, I hike and take pictures of flowers.
Yes, I got ruffled feathers about starting the drive early and getting up trail in timely fashion to enjoy three-kinds-of-cheese-mac-and-cheez at a reasonable hour. But I relaxed into the mountains upon meeting another guardian marmot at the alpine hut. I yielded to the unassuming but human-swallowing 8-ft-deep cloak of snow that persists atop the foothills and tongue of Mint Glacier. No amount of urgency can rush the flowers; they bloom at the right time.
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