KITCHEN CONFIDENTIAL

 

For Mom

 If Bourdain was still around I swear in this wish I could be him. The philosopher Otto Rank wrote about the Art and Artist, and that melding of operatic design and execution is in the chef's mind I admire. What would he do with these awesome produce on hand? What is his private kitchen like cooking for himself? How does he think about food with that writerly impulse? Who comes first: the art or the artist? How does he set his table when no one is joining? In the act of cooking, did he choose the home or restaurant style, the rustic or modern traditions, to comfort him? Who is on his mind in his gaze inward? How well does a poet eat if he could reveal his secrets to you?   

 As votary of the Lotus Sutra, Nicherin Daishonin described that nirvana was a place on earth and likened his faith to a tree as a tree attains it mastering nature. Bourdain loved the world of food because from all walks of life he celebrated them in film noir, intellectually and romantically inhabiting stories of cultivars and victuals for their praises within. He studied the intersection of politics and street food in Burma for their nuance, while slurping his bayleaf-spiced root soup and shooting flower fritters to his mouth. Baobab fruits are the main sustenance of a nomadic tribe in Kenya on the driest months of the year, and full moon-dancing silhouetted the fires of the night camp. His commentaries would've been cosmic, but he wore their sandals instead along the trail, and what could never be revealed in picture transcended.        

 Taro breaks down its sticky substance with other vegetables at play in the stock pot absorbing its gel but flavoring the broth another level. The malunggay pods (a.k.a. horseradish drumsticks) are the "bone marrow" of the plant realm, and Henry David Thoreau would be my vicarious guest enjoying this meal both on paper and in stomach, sucking out the butter-scorched bell pepper juice from its life. Would Bourdain like that? I wonder. I live alone, I eat alone, I bow before eating, I shake the heart chime thanking the mountain for my food, and I write to live. I am motherless, but there's a heavenly portrait of her in my midst and gift offerings to boot. How does a poet eat? Well, it couldn't be further from the experience of love he had received as a child. So cooks like his mother to love him.