Simmering 16th Notes and Triplets with Chocolate Ganache

This is my somewhat blathering response to my friend's wonderful post about her passion for music - at her blog, Fall To Grace.

I was made to take organ lessons starting when I was 4 or 5, back when my little fingers could barely manage the span of a G7 chord (if I remember that correctly) and I needed peddle risers to help my toes barely reach.

I was the little kid playing "The Entertainer" on the Wurlitzer every Saturday at the mall.

Not by choice.
By chore.

I could read music. Suppose I still could if I tried. But, to me, sitting at an organ, or playing the clarinet was like doing piecework. The page says you play an F here, check the key signature, adjust as necessary, and you play the note.

Complicated key signatures were nothing more than cryptology.
Making the proper substitutions, I cracked the code of circles, lines and dots.

Sure, I could have fun with Joplin as I punched down on the keys, watching my fingers dance back and forth. But, following the notes in the page was like playing Simon. A game - could I press what the ink spots told me to hit...in time?

No love.
No passion.
Basically, just math...representing sound, but not music.

How I longed to PLAY, really play, the piano.
I'd sit down and hit the notes.
But, there was no passion.

For years cooking was the same way.
Measure, dump, stir.
It came out "correct" but with no love.

Course, then there was a switch that flipped one day, September 11, 2006 to be exact, and I woke up wanting to cook. Longing to cook. Suddenly, a day without cooking, or thinking of new recipes to try, or wandering through the veggies aisle just to take in the colors - the scents - was a day without joy. Cooking became - and remains - an exciting new passion that I can't imagine living without. Nope, no joke.

And, interestingly enough, I really never wanted the passion to cook. If I made a list of desires, "passion for cooking" would have been neighbors with "learning to change my own oil filter."

Honestly, the oil filter would have won.

But, now...it's such a blessing to cook.
And, imagine, create, and learn.
And, taste.

Maybe someday...if I'm lucky, I'll wake up seeing the the colors of the notes as brilliantly as I see colors of peppers. Maybe someday the sounds will come together, becoming more than themselves... as scents become subtle as they simmer then meld - miraculously growing in complexity larger than each food component could be alone.

Maybe someday I'll feel the synergy of sound in my heart...
Instead of my head.

Oh, how I wish I had the passion for the 8th notes.
And, could really...appreciate-
A.
Rest.

But, you can't fake that.
No, you can't fake that.