the art of home cooking

I'm in the den—maybe lying on the gold shag carpet, maybe slouched deep into the arm chair—and the tv's on. I've done at least some of my homework so I'm taking an hour out of the packed day of a teenager to veg in front of some videos or a rerun of The Facts of Life or Cheers. The tv's on but not so loud that I can't hear, sizzling above me, the dancing patter of grease in a hot sauce pan—the sound of home cooking, of mom being artful in the kitchen. She's standing just at the top of the stairs and through a doorway—or at least I've always pictured her standing there over the stove while the chicken or hamburger or pork chops and onions simmer loudly. I've always pictured her just standing there, her gaze infusing into my dinner a kind of nurture, a kind of mom-only-can-give care. Perhaps she is actually seated at the table, reading the newspaper or the New Yorker or doodling with charcoal pencils on a pad of drawing paper or the edge of the news; but I've always pictured her standing over the oven, no matter how late she's gotten home, nightly letting the aromas wafting out of her culinary creations pull the details of her workday away. Perhaps I too need to return to cooking, not just for healthy eating or creativity but for healthy living, for peace of mind.