The potatoes are my favorite part. At 10:30am, I realize that my patient schedule is congested towards the latter end of today. That’s when I typically cook supper. Fortunately, I have a plan B for such occasions: the slow cooker.
Pork shoulder, bell pepper, onion, garlic, stewed tomatoes, seasoning and oh yes, potatoes. Making a meal in the crockpot pays kitchen karma dividends. That is, my sweet family thanks me as if I’d only just finished hours of kitchen labor, On top of that, the kitchen is already clean before supper arrives. It is a good investment of time and effort.
But the potatoes need preparation. I grab the ever-sharp santoku knife and a cutting board. With my brush and warm water I scrub each of the russets. No peeling for this dish–rustic style it is.
Cooking shows and social media have taught me that inconsistently cut ingredients are frowned upon. I am up to the task, mimicking what I’ve seen. With my index finger on the top of the blade, the other fingers guide my santoku knife in a forward rocking motion.
I measure the slices and mark the side of the next potato. The blade whispers “sssk sssk” with each stroke.
I am nowhere else, thinking of nothing else. My mind is not swinging through the treetops. My worries have not disappeared, but they aren’t here, now. I am.
“Be here now” I sometimes say to myself, and when I cut vegetables, I am here now. I am mindful.
It’s not journaling, it’s not psychotherapy, it’s not affirmation. Nevertheless, today, now, it is comfortable, and I am grateful that it’s keeping this estranged father’s mind out of the bad places.
Dinner is served tonight at 7:30
