watched pots

As the cliche goes, a watched pot doesn't boil. And I would add, over-watered herbs perish, a fridge that is opened too much grows toxic, and a waited for phone never rings. I must keep learning this lesson over and over.

So what is the difference between proactive smash the hell out of a piece of garlic and toss it in the grill compared to lightly bruising the thing and hoping it releases its fragrance? Between Calling first, or initiating the dance verses waiting for the guy to be well, manly, or ask you to dance. Or to do whatever.

Much is made of taking time and letting flavors develop. We marinate, macerate, brine, pickle, make ahead, and slow cook. Daubes, stews, casseroles all depend upon a slow marrying of flavors, bringing the heat up, and letting them simmer in their covered juices. Not much different from how relationships work. In the old days.

Darwin-like we have speeded up many things, we cook with microwaves, at a cosmic speed of light, race through drive through Starbuck's, and pour the smoothie into the travel mug. Two dates, the kiss, the bed. Three dates and it is over. Well, not always, but hold on here! Just slow down, and let the flavors mellow.

But do we have time? Peak oil, peak experiences, past experiences, and the french knife is heading to our lifeline, the thread ready to be cut. AT this point in life, should we wait? Why do we? Can we blend somehow a quick prep and preheat in the microwave of existence so we can then mingle, blend, and season our relationships over what time is left? Can we be both fast food and an eight course dinner delivered over hours with bottles of champagne?

I have no idea. I am just playing, laying, with this idea. I want both. I want it now, the fast food, the quick saute, the immediate thaw, and satiation by the time the oven is cool and the CD is through with its set. And, I want the full on Sunday afternoon tete a tete, oven heating, a great coq au vin simmering, wine chilling, wine breathing, and whip cream ready to layer on the dessert. I want fast hands, slow embraces, quick step dance and langorous stretches.

I want a microwave life in a rustic chateau, dripping with antiquity, cellars, and old world slowness. Taking time to work over an old table preparing food for someone I love, I use my old crystal, hundred year old silver, and new spices.

So you, if you are reading this out there, be both so I can be both. The paradox of modern life is I am not alone in this wish, and pinpoints of light are out there as maybe, someone is reading this. But we are everywhere, Darwin was wrong folks, we want it slow, it is the century which has sped up. And how do we find eath other, writing in our chateaus, our back rooms, our internet illusion?

slow food, slow love, a lifetime in the what may be, fewer years ahead than behind me. Hell. They had best be full on years, I have wasted enough.