The hardest part is deciding what to prepare. Once I’ve got that, the whole game plan appears. I wash my hands and assemble the ingredients, bowls, cutting board, knives, various utensils. Then I begin.
I take the skinless, boneless chicken thigh in my hand and place it on the cutting board. With my sharp, thin knife, I remove the bits of excess fat and cut the meat into cubes. I think about Holly’s wonderful chickens, roaming free in their big, fenced yard. The thigh I’m cutting probably came from some poor critter raised in a crowded cage, never feeling the slightest touch of human love, Silently, I thank it for its life and for feeding me. It sizzles and I turn the pieces to sear them on all sides to hold in their juices.
For a moment, the news about the proliferating bird flu and about the rash of fires at food processing plants flashes through my mind. But I catch myself and turn my attention back to the meat happily cooking in my pan and to my gratitude that it has arrived in my kitchen and will make a fine contribution to my meal. That’s what a joy warrior does when thoughts of the world’s darkness threaten to eclipse the light of a heart full of thanksgiving.
I think about all the people involved in getting this little chicken thigh to me–the producers, the packers, the makers of the packaging, the truckers who transported it, the buyers and sellers and handlers along the way, the machines involved and all those who designed, built and operated them–the list could go on and on. I send a little wave of thanks to all who made it possible, a cast, no doubt, of millions if you trace it all out. “Every door leads to an infinite world,” I say to myself, laughing. Everything’s connected and intermingled.
The shrimp come next, small, cleaned, tailless ones. I like the slightly salty smell of them as I stir them into the chicken. It brings images of the ocean and fishing boats and fishermen. And for a moment, I am sailing in Boston Harbor, feeling the rush of the wind as it pushes us through the water. Maybe, far below me, shrimp crawl. I remember eating lobster once fresh from the boat that docked at the restaurant’s lower door, somewhere on the coast of Maine. The shrimp in my present dinner probably came from a farm. Almost everything’s a step removed from nature these days. But at least it wasn’t made in a lab. Thank you, little pink shrimp, for being real and for the gift of your energy.
I open the bag of frozen stir-fry veggies—broccoli, mushrooms, strips of sweet red pepper and carrots, sweet pea pods, cauliflower, water chestnuts, corn—and add a couple handfuls to the pan. The colors brighten the whole dish as I gently toss them. I imagine vast fields of vegetables from a half dozen states and maybe beyond the nation’s boundaries–and again, I thank all who labored to bring them to me.
I sprinkle in a pinch of pink Himalayan salt—What a wonder!—and a twist or two of freshly ground mixed peppercorns and just a dash of ground coriander. Then I let it simmer a bit, aware that days are coming soon when such bounty as this will be available no more. I pray for those who go hungry right now, and I am more grateful for this beautiful meal than words could ever say.
I ladle big spoonfuls of it onto a clear glass plate, breathing in its fragrance, and sit to savor its flavors. When I finish, I am satisfied, and filled, body and soul.
Wishing you a week of beautifully mindful meals.
Warmly,
Susan