Improvising
I don't even know what to call what I just did, but it was tasty.
My cooking adventure has taken leaps and bounds this week as apparently I've broken free of the my strict dependence on recipes and begun to experiment. It all started last Thursday when I was feeling down. I knew I didn't want to eat crap; I didn't really feel like cooking; but I found the cookfire in my soul and decided I would enjoy trying something new. I searched for an hour or so to find a suitable recipe, but my friend Heather encouraged me just to throw something together, so that's what I did. She gave me some ideas, but I went to the store, bought what I needed, and went to work.
I was astounded to discover all at once how simple, and subtle, the act of creation was. It literally was as easy as throwing something in a skillet. The spices and seasonings I applied made flavor, and I either liked it or didn't like it. Thursday I made sliced red potatoes, layered them with cheese, and baked them with milk to make scalloped potatoes. And I baked chicken breasts in the skillet, covered with lemon and rosemary, with green beans and onions mixed in. I had no idea the degree to which the juice would flow from the lemon... My spirits soared; the heaviness in my heart melted like butter in a frying pan.
That was tasty. But I'd taken a few hints. Tonight the training wheels were off. I... what do you even call this? I put the chicken breast in the skillet, sprinkled it with garlic salt, and cooked it on the eye with medium heat. When it was clear the inside wasn't getting done, I sliced it into little pieces and cooked each individual piece. And then I ate. The whole process took about ten minutes, and it was very tasty. It tasted like... grilled chicken?
I have mastered grits and am getting better with bacon. My eggs are still a little sketchy. But through it all, I have tea.