WHEN COOKING CREATES A ZEN STATE OF MIND.
On Mondays I roll out of bed extra early, creeping around in the dim dawn light, pulling on jeans and a sweater, my kitchen clogs. I don’t make coffee, even though I really could use it, for fear of waking my sleeping kids.
That’s OK, because making coffee is the first order of business for the morning kitchen volunteer at the Zen Hospice Guest House, and for the last year or so, on Monday mornings, that volunteer is me.
People scrunch up their faces when I tell them I cook for residents at a hospice. In part I think it’s because they’re surprised to learn that these residents, staring death down, still want to eat at all. But I’m sure it’s also because they imagine this work to be depressing. Nothing could be further from the truth: I find this intentional, mindful cooking to be uplifting. When I scramble those eggs and toast that bread, the work becomes a meditation, an exercise in love and care. I slide the eggs onto a warmed plate. I set the tray with a spray of flowers, a ramekin of brilliant orange apricot jam. I am not a religious person, but making that breakfast is like saying grace.
I call this sort of work meditative cooking, by which I mean the type of cooking that allows you to happily lose yourself in the process. Early on in my tenure in the hospice, MaryEllen Kirkpatrick, the kitchen director, shared the house recipe for crepes. Rich with eggs and butter, crepes can be used in many applications, for breakfast or lunch or dinner. And the process of making them is repetitive, soothing: Ladling the batter into the hot pan, where it sizzles and spits, simultaneously tilting the pan so it flows into a thin, even circle. Watching the edges for browning, then sliding a spatula under and flipping. It’s not difficult, exactly, but you have to pay attention, making them one at a time until all the batter is gone and you’ve got a decent stack.
At home when I make crepes, I peel two from the stack, spread them with Nutella and give one to each of my two boys. The rest I save for supper (it’s worth mentioning that crepes freeze beautifully; separate them with sheets of parchment or wax paper and wrap tightly with plastic wrap). To make these thin pancakes dinnerworthy, I top each with a slice of ham, fill them with sauteed mushrooms, then roll them into tight cylinders, cozying them up together in a casserole dish. A bechamel sauce, enhanced by the addition of Gruyère cheese, gets spooned over the top, and then the crepes are briefly baked until bubbly and browned. This is just one variation, though — you could fill them with mushrooms and spinach, or pulled chicken and Swiss chard, or ratatouille. No matter the combination, the fundamental assembly — and the crepe recipe — remains the same.
If you end up making crepes often, you might invest in a thin carbon steel crepe pan, made especially for the job. But if you’re just trying it out for the first time, a small nonstick skillet works well, too.
A recipe for crepes is hardly the only thing I’ve learned in my time volunteering in the hospice kitchen, but it’s a good way to practice some of the other lessons: to slow down, to take some care in even the most quotidian tasks. I get lost in the meditation and, before I know it, it’s time to eat.