Ceremonial Cooking and The Adventures of a Child in the Kitchen

Maybe you felt that way the time you danced until 4 in the morning, your body moving in this perfect way, in perfect time with the music and it felt right and good and you were so happy. Maybe it was that song that touched you in such a way that the singers voice and the lyrics sent chills up your spine. Maybe you find that feeling when you work in the garden, your hands touching the earth, your nose smelling the soil and the sun warming your back. For me, I have always found that thing, that feeling when I am cooking.

My first cookbook came to me as a gift when I was ten years old. It was called 'Once Upon a Recipe' and each recipe corresponded with a different fairy tale. There was this one for Rumplestiltskin quesadillas, and the idea was that the cheese was like gold that you were spinning. The recipe called for the incorporation of Mexican spices into the cheese to form this perfect quesadilla. That was when I learned about the play, the alchemy of seasonings. In case you’ve never tried it…thyme and oregano and cumin really are a perfect marriage with cheese and a soft flour tortilla.
Then, there was this recipe for Selfish Giant cookies, inspired by the Oscar Wilde children’s story. The story was about this giant who learned the lesson of generosity from the children of the town and how they helped him to open his heart. The recipe was straightforward: basic chocolate chip cookies, with maple sugar and a healthy dose of vanilla. I made those cookies in the spirit of generosity, as I stood there, stirring the bowl and thinking of all the people I loved that I wanted to share those cookies with. And the batter was delicious. I kept dipping my finger in and licking the spatula with relish. I baked those cookies, and shared them with my family and our neighbors, and everybody said that they tasted so good. They really raved about them. I wondered if perhaps it was in part because I was young and this was one of my first adventures into cooking. I knew when grown ups were humoring me, like when they let me win a game of chess for instance, but this was different. They REALLY liked those cookies.
I wondered to myself why this was so, what was so special about my creation. Yes, in part it was the recipe, but there was something more. I found myself wondering if perhaps it was because I had eaten so much batter, that my saliva had somehow mingled itself with the dough. Maybe there was something special in my spit, I thought to myself in my ten year old brain.
All grown up now and, after all this time, I realize why those cookies were so special. I was so excited to make them, and I brought my childlike joy into baking those cookies. That feeling, that spirit of intention, is what makes food better than just good. I’ve eaten at plenty of good restaurants in my lifetime. The places where the food was really special had a certain quality to them. There is love, intention and a passion for each element that goes into the cuisine, which makes its way to the table and into one’s mouth and body.
First, you must start with quality ingredients, elements that taste and feel good. When you go to the supermarket, or the farmers market, or if you are really lucky your very own garden, you go with the child that still lives inside of you and together you sweetly ask the things you find: ‘Do you want to come and play in my casserole today?’ And if you listen closely enough, the food says ‘Yes, yes!’ and you take it and put it gently in your basket.
Cooking with intentionality must be about play. If you cannot play in the kitchen, you can never realize just how good raisins taste with carrots in a garlicky cumin vinaigrette. That spirit of play comes through in the food we eventually eat.


I know of no better barometer of my emotional and spiritual health than the food that I prepare. If I am feeling off kilter, if I have perhaps missed something vital in the taking care of myself, if I can’t quite figure out what I need or what’s going on in my life because I’ve disassociated somehow, that’s when I burn the eggs or overcook the noodles. I suppose what I am saying is that cooking is ceremony. You must show up and be present in order to truly reap the gifts of the experience. It’s about giving thanks for the food that you have brought home, for the abundance in your life, all the things that fill you with feelings of love and happiness. When you are truly present with the experience, THAT’s when the magic happens. The ceremony begins.
As you are working with the food, you are touching these things that are of the earth, they are real, physical and tangible. The smells, the texture, the colors are all mingling together in this complete experience. I’ve always needed that physicality in my spiritual life - the embodiment of my prayers. That is what cooking is to me.
And, like all ceremony, cooking gets better when it is shared in community. To break bread with someone, to take food into your body in the presence of others is a time-honored tradition. We celebrate holidays, milestones and even those everyday moments of our lives by gathering around the table to share a meal. I’ve always loved that kind of social bonding that happens around good food.
When the mood strikes us, my sweetheart and I will prepare a special meal together. Perhaps we listen to music fitting to how we feel at the time, and start peeling and cutting onions and garlic together, talking about our day, the things we are thinking about, our hopes, our dreams and our inspirations. We prepare a meal together, in this way, and it nurtures the connection between us, just as the food we prepare will nourish our bodies. When the food is ready, one of us will clear and set the table while the other lovingly serves a portion onto each plate. I love presentation, the arrangement of colors and flavors on the plate – this too is part of the experience. Maybe we light a candle too, I try and always end up burning my fingers and we both laugh and he goes, ‘Here, let me do that.’ That part, in a way, is part of the ritual too: the laughter, the not taking ourselves too seriously.
We sit down at the table with the food before us. We smell it and admire it, and then we say a short prayer of thanks – for the food, for our lives, for whatever our hearts are called to name and give thanks for at that time. Then we look at each other, smile and dig in, and it so good, so rich in so many ways.