Garlic And Hot Oil

There is a moment. A moment when the garlic hits heated olive oil. In that moment there is a micro-Big-Bang. Worlds are released in the sound of the sizzle, and galaxies in my olfactory sense. I just want to take it in -– experience its glory -– be lost in something bigger than myself. In that moment I am a five-star chef, a culinary master, an alchemist of cuisine, Merlin with a magic spatula.

I guess the magic of that moment resides in the promise of it. Really, nothing has been done beyond the change of the atmosphere in the kitchen. Yet the groundwork has been laid for everything to follow. A farmer tills the deep rich earth and looks upon what he has done with both satisfaction and expectation. That dark soil turned upon itself holds no seed, but uncovers the holding of promise. The farmer has nothing and everything all at once. The promise itself fertilizes the soil, it excretes from the pores of the farmer’s sun-tanned skin, it clings to his strong hands and beneath his fingernails. He and the soil become one through the promise of what the soil will yield and he will harvest.

My garlic hisses and dances as it tans in its hot oil bath speaking convincingly its promise to my nose. “I am everything ready. Everything in potential. Everything in expectancy. You hear me -– smell me, and see nothing yet but you taste the future already. I am the seed of harvest. I am the foretaste of feast. I give you my all, a sacrifice of promise and a promise of sacrifice. I’m here changing the atmosphere–filling it with my essence so that when you breathe you breathe the promise itself. You are being filled with life-giving air which is permeated with my promise so that the life and the promise are inseparable. We are one and you are one with us. Breathe me, hear me, taste me, believe me.”

Next time I drop the garlic into the oil. I’m going to relish that moment. I’ll take an extra-deep breath and savor the aroma. I’ll take the time to dream, taste, and believe.

Brian