A Moment In Time

The internal editor is both a writer’s best friend and worst nemesis because its voice sounds like all of our heroes, influences, instincts, talent, and tastes. The problem is that those voices are both encouraging us and criticizing us, simultaneously and constantly. I think writing only really comes out when you can shut all those voices off- even just for moments at a time. Between news of the world, work, and my own preoccupation with getting back in shape, there are precious few times when I can actually feel “still” enough to hear my own voice.

In the Hagakure by Yamamoto Tsunetomo, the samurai-turned-Buddhist monk writes “Lord Sanenori said, ‘In the midst of a single breath, where perversity cannot be held, is the Way.’”

Think about that for a moment. You’re breathing right now, right? I hope so, anyway. Don’t do anything to change your breath, but just kind of notice it. When people meditate, the reason we get told to “count our breaths” or “focus on our breath” so much is that it’s impossible to breathe anywhere but in the present moment.

So here you are, breathing, and just being aware of air going in and out of your body. Without changing your breath, though, try to notice the spots between the breaths. The point just before you inhale or exhale when the previous motion has just finished. Nothing in, nothing out, you’re not actively holding your breath… it’s just stillness.

Paying this kind of attention to something as ubiquitous as breathing- really just being still and present long enough to notice- can feel really freaking weird. It’s like suddenly noticing how your clothing feels on your skin, or realizing you can feel the structure of your teeth in your mouth.

Okay, that last one WAS seriously weird. Sorry about that, but when was the last time you stopped long enough to notice something like that, though? Before I started meditating regularly, that kind of sensation only happened when I was injured or something felt off/wrong. We’re not encouraged to stop or think or be present- there’s so much to do and see and consume and needs doing and we’ll be left behind otherwise, and therefore less-than therefore shamed therefore unfuckable therefore therefore therefore… It’s not a good way to live, but we’re used to it. We’re so used to it that stopping to think, feel, and be present in our bodies feels really goddamned weird.

A quote meme reading in white text over a landscape "All men's miseries derive from not being able to sit in a quiet room alone. Blaise Pascal"

I still don’t always feel as still or serene as I want to, or when I want to, but I have started to notice moments that make feeling present easier.

I’m a chef, so of course focusing on a taste or flavor is important. Whether it’s shutting my eyes to focus on what a new batch of nectarine jam needs at work or sitting up on my porch, determined to experience everything a dram of whiskey has to offer, those are moments of quiet focus, stillness, and presence that I need in my life.

When I run, that feeling of presence and stillness is called “the Zone” or “the Void.” The mind goes blank and there’s nothing but the slap of shoes on asphalt and wind on skin. Even physical pain is ignorable and thus endurable.

It’s a bit different when I’m sitting down at my writing desk because ironically it’s here that sensory presence can be a distraction. The candle I’ve made a habit of lighting when I write does less to inspire presence than encourage contemplation. Above my desk is a large print of Rene Magritte’s “Personal Values.” I chose it because it’s surreal, serene, and just odd enough to let you stare at it for a moment and think about other things, like watching fish in a tank.

The painting "Personal Values" by Rene Magritte. Looking at the painting, it's unclear if the room is small or the occupants are large. A mirrored wardrobe and a neatly made bed are in a room painted to look like clouds on a white sky. The floor is wood planks with oriental rugs. Occupying the room are enormous turtle-shell comb leaning against the wall on the bed, a massive match stick, a blue glass water goblet, and a pink bar of soap the size of a trunk. On top of the dresser is an equally massive shaving brush.
“Personal Values, 1952”- Rene Magritte

Even as I sit here writing, there is that internal editor again. “Where are you going with this, Matt? Does this have anything to do with food? The culinary industry? Are you a food writer or aren’t you?”

Yeah, I am- and I could easily spin this whole article to be something about finding stillness in the creative life, maintaining mindfulness in the kitchen, or meditations over a medium-well-roasted tofu block. I’m not going to, though. Even in your creative life and the pursuit of a craft, you need to take the equivalent of a breath and find the stillness before it.

Stay Classy,

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Cocktail Talk

Back when I first moved to Portland, I was really only familiar with the West side. It’s where my work was, it was the bustling metropolis half where I figured all in the interesting and cool stuff was, and I never really need to cross the Willamette until I got a job in Southeast. Soon after we moved nearby chasing better rent and livability than the suburban hell of Beaverton could offer.

Back then, I was confused and disappointed by the lack of bars with late hours and wondered where Portlands reputation as a drinking town came from. Unless that was limited to beer geeks with thick glasses, beards and flannel, I hadn’t seen a single bar open past 10pm in marked contrast to the local watering holes I was used to even in the suburbs of Atlantic City.

I’m bellied-up to the bar at Holman’s, a recent revived institution of the Laurelhurst neighborhood in Southeast. Posters proudly proclaim their new operating hours- Noon to 2:30am, Monday through Friday. Saturday and Sunday they open at 8 to snag the weekend brunch crowd, but still stay open till 2:30 in the morning to welcome the folks that don’t need a special meal to justify day drinking (or night, for that matter.)

What am I having? A martini. The classic. The eternal. The classy. The basic. Dry and dirty, stirred, served in a coupe glass with a vermouth wash (I should have specified that I like the vermouth left in. If I want vermouth-scented gin, I’ll ask for it- but I’m not gonna be That Guy who causes problems in local bars.)

I had a martini yesterday too, in another bar across town. This bar, an upscaled dive bar trying to take in the 5pm “drinks and party” crowd, apologized for not serving my martini with a big ice cube and prepared it in a rocks/lowball glass.

The cocktail was fine, but because of the glass I had to drink it quickly. Accident? Intent? Gender politics? The Blood of the Lamb? Who knows why a bartender would serve a martini unasked for in an unorthodox glass?

What has me wondering today, in a filling bar that I may soon abandon for home (where the booze is paid for and pants are optional) is cocktails themselves and why I enjoy (as my sister called it) “classical drinking.”

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The Old Men and the Seafood

I started out the door with a simple idea- “Find a place with food and a beer, sit down, do some writing, come home and hide from the sun to edit.” That’s always the plan for at least one of my days off. Brilliant blog posts, scintillating wit, and scathing social criticism don’t just fall out of the sky, you know.

I love my wife, my cat, and my friends very much, but I’ve also had a lot of time (and put a lot of work into) enjoying my own company. That’s why, at some point every weekend and even on vacation, I try to make a point of getting out on my own and putting some pavement under my shoes.

What looks interesting?
What are people talking about?
Where are the workers going on their breaks?
Where are the old men drinking?
Are there cooks out and about? Where are they?

That’s how you hear about the best stuff in any given city. You have to go find it.

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Finding Our Foodways- Why You Can’t Eat Nostalgia

Go far enough down a rabbit hole, and you’ll find more than Wonderland. No subject or history happens in a vacuum and, if you are curious enough, you’ll find links to people, moments, movements, and concepts you might not have thought possible.

I’m reading an oddly engaging book that is, ostensibly, about a famous sibling rivalry in Battle Creek, Michigan at the dawn of the 20th century. The book is also about American foodways of the time, the history of medicine, and the beliefs of various Christian sects in America- namely the Millerites, the Grahamites, and the Seventh-Day Adventists.

You might think that’s a little far afield for a book on sibling rivalry- until you realize that the brothers in question were Dr. John Harvey and Will Kellogg. Together, they created the “wellness” industry, pioneered the mass production of food… and so helped give 21st-century weirdos something else to obsess over.

A woman in yellow looking with disgust at a single red apple in front of her.
Photo by Engin Akyurt on Pexels.com
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We Don’t Need Permission to Be

The winery where I work has an excellent view. It’s a major selling point as far as our clientele goes- people can look down on the valley over vineyards and woodland while sipping a glass of wine and take it easy. It’s a magnet for photos and set dressing when weddings and celebrations buy out some space.

When I arrive to work early in the morning, that view is usually all mine- but I don’t take advantage of it at all. I have work to do.

That’s no one’s fault but mine, of course. I get in early because that’s when The Baker shows up. I get the most space and most access to the ovens for a limited time before the rest of the kitchen rolls in mid-morning to afternoon, and I need to get to work.

So I show up early, knowing I have work to do, but I always want to walk out on the patio where the guests sit- where I absolutely don’t belong during business hours (and in fact would prefer not to be)- and just soak up that view for a moment. The stillness. The vastness. My smallness. The soothing balm of scale and insignificance to start the day, and keep with me while I obsess over rolls, bites of cake, and bits of chocolate that manage to mean everything to me… and absolutely nothing at all.

I never do, though. I have work to do, and I don’t get paid- OR pay- to enjoy the view.

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