Anatoly slowly drew the knife out of it's sheath: a 10 inch Shun classic, made in Seki City, Japan. A treasured gift from Natalia on his 25th birthday. It's rippled-steel blade glinted under the warm halogen lights. He slid his thumb against the edge of the blade, checking it's edge.
The top of the onion came off first, in a single clean cut. Then it was halved, peeled, and diced in the fluid, methodical motions of experience. The diced onion joined the hot oil in the wok. Next up were a few cloves of garlic which were topped, tailed crushed against the side of the knife, peeled and diced. They joined the onions along with a few generous table spoons of red curry paste.
The concoction sizzled gently releasing a mouth, and eye, watering scent.
A handful of potatoes was pulled from the box on the counter, rinsed quartered, and slid carefully to the now boiling pot of water on the stove.
A trio of peppers awaited their fate. Judge and executioner, Anatoly selected the yellow pepper, concluding that it would complement the red curry paste most appropriately, and performed a ritualistic halving, coring and dicing. It too found it's way into the wok.
Methodical, creative, and somewhat meditative, Anatoly found peace in cooking. He found himself disconnected from the world, and more connected to himself. Some days he would switch off entirely, and allow his body to focus on the task at hand, making each motion as smooth, and fluid, and methodical. Mind quiet, and observing. On others he would become lost in thought - mulling some facet of the state of the world, trying to piece together his thoughts on a subject for later discussion with Natalia.
He tossed the contents of the wok in the air a few times and set it back on the burner. Adding a can of coconut milk, he stirred the contents of the wok, the redness of the paste first swirling into the white of the milk and eventually blending to a rich, deep pink.
Potatoes par boiled, he drained them and added them to the wok, along with a tablespoon of peanut butter, and a teaspoon of dark brown sugar. Stir, taste, cover.
He drizzled a little oil into a large saucepan, and heated it. He toasted a cup of rice in the hot oil for a few minutes, then added two cups of boiling water to the pan, quickly putting a lid on the pan to catch the rush of steam released as the water his the hot pan.
Waiting time.
Anatoly cleared the surfaces, and sat on the floor in the hallway just outside the kitchen. The food smelt good. He smiled, closed his eyes, and rested his head against the wall.
A few minutes later, he was revived by the sound of a key in the door of their apartment, and moments later Natalia appeared.
"Hey"
"Hi! What are you doing down there, are you okay?"
"Yeah I'm fine, just relaxing."
"Mmm, that smells good, is it for me?!" she exclaimed, jokingly.
He nodded, and smiled.
Natalia joined him on the floor, and rested her head on his shoulder.
"How was your day?"
"Oh you know, it was okay. Nothing too exciting, same old stuff. I kinda hoped I'd be put on a new project by now, as the last one's kind of a drag. But hey, it's not so bad. How about you? What did you get up to?"
"Just hacking, and cooking, mostly."
"Speaking of, when can we eat?"
"As soon as the rice is done, about five minutes or so."
She rested her head back on his shoulder.
"What do you think happiness is?" he asked.
"I'm pretty happy right now."
"But what is happiness? How would you characterize it? Pain is obvious, my body knows when it's in pain, but it seems like happiness must be something more than just an absence of pain."
"Well sure", she paused, unsure of what to say.
"I guess, I've been thinking, when did happiness evolve? I'm pretty confident that bugs have no real sense of happiness. But what about a mouse? Is a mouse happy? Can a mouse be sad? Or do you have to be aware of yourself to be concerned about happiness?"
"Magpie's are self aware, maybe you'd be better off thinking about whether they are happy?"
"I guess it seems to me that happiness must be a higher level emotion. Happiness isn't critical for survival, like fear or pain. Does that make it different? A higher level emotion?"
"What about boredom? That doesn't seem like a fundamental emotion, but dogs and parrots and other intelligent creatures get bored don't they?"
"Do they, or are we just anthropomorphizing them? Maybe it's something else? Maybe a bored dog just doesn't have enough social connection, which it knows it needs for propagation of the species?"
"Is food ready yet?"
"Yeah, probably."
Natalia wandered through to their living room and set the table while Anatoly served up.
This was written as part of NaNoWriMo - an attempt to write a 50,000 word novely before the end of November, and will fit somewhere into the novel.
If you enjoyed it, (or if you didn't but want to support me anyway) you should totally sponsor me for charity! It's going to a great cause, the Scottish Association for Mental Health.
<3 Phil