I used to have the over achiever's disease, I remember it now, when it was hard to commit myself to cooking a particular dish because there might be something better. What misery. Hard to decide what restaurant to go to, what to buy, because there might be something more exciting.
All over now. Making pea soup I'm as happy as James Marshall's Martha, except I like to eat it too, and as far as I know, no one's ever poured it in their loafers.
Sauteing the chopped root vegetables and celery it's possible to become intoxicated by the steam born aromas braiding in the air, an olfactory sonata that caramelizes my heart. On the other burner, the pot filled with water and split peas, slowly softening to the point where each semisphere goes limp. To think those fine, spiraling tendrils that supported the vines and delicate flowers are part of the crew behind this inimitable performance proves once again that I don't need to search under rocks for what might be.
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