Cooking requires my full attention. It’s a distraction of heat, art, science, and instruction. It isn’t kind to my daydreams or, particularly during these times, my worries. The need for awareness is immediate—chop, stir, add, reduce, whisk, simmer, drain. Did I set the timer? Is it ½ teaspoon or tablespoon? I’m out of tomato paste, what can I substitute? For years I thought of a kitchen as an additional storage space in an apartment, but now to be present in a kitchen, baking bread or brining pork chops for the first time, is a gift.

I know I’m fortunate. I have food. I have shelter and means to prepare said food. The governor here in Rhode Island has issued a stay-at-home order, and I’m able to do so. I’m grateful for this, but I also worry. About the little things and the big things. When can I get my hair cut? The workers on the frontline who continue to show up day after day across the world. People whose home life isn’t safe or sustainable because of violence, trauma, neglect. And in this country what will change on the other side of this? What is the other side? Do I smell something burning?

I’ve never considered myself a cook. For me, food has been a public experience—a lunch meeting with a director at a coffee shop, a dinner date at a restaurant with my partner, a breakfast sandwich from the corner bodega on my way to work. I wasn’t completely inept, I could cook things like oatmeal or pasta, and occasionally I was inspired to sauté zucchini or a holiday side dish, but most of the time, for a long time, food was a thing I ordered.

A few years ago, I read Ntozake Shange’s novel Sassafrass, Cypress & Indigo. This eponymous story takes us into the lives of three sisters. It’s a wonderful, genre-defying piece of art that uses letters, spells, various fonts, and other literary devices to delve deep into the world that Shange created. One element that stands out to me: the recipes. There are several real, you-can-cook-them-yourself recipes throughout the book with titles such as “Catfish/The Way Albert Liked It” and “Three C’s: Cypress’ Curried Crabmeat.” (Cooking these recipes is on my culinary bucket list.) Speaking about these elements in the book Shange said, “you have to read the entire recipes—ingredients and procedures—because if you don't, you don't really know what's going on with those girls…I wanted those recipes to create a place to be.” Shange provides the gift of cooking as art, as place, as cultural sustenance.

 Cooking is rocky for me. I burn fingers (nothing major, thank goodness), drop dishes, over- and undercook, over and under season. I have few instincts in the kitchen. I need a recipe to make anything beyond a bowl of cereal or an omelet. And then there are those moments when I make something that smells good, looks good, and tastes good. That dose of pride and excitement gives enough encouragement to make the next dish. (A similar experience occurs when I write plays.)

Shange’s novel bloomed my appreciation for cooking and led me to the realization that my own artistic practice needed a similar form of expression. Preparing food is an act of self-care. A place to be present in thought, in movement.