Tonight I sat at the dinner table looking at the assortment of food that I had prepared:
– carrot souffle (the first souffle I’ve made);
– bread with sesame seed / flax seed crust (my favorite new combination) made from scratch;
– homemade soup;
– freshly made vegetable-fruit juice.
Everything was made from basic foods. Not a single ingredient was processed. Everything tasted exactly as I’d hoped it would. I felt a moment of pride.
I said to Orchid, “I have to stop saying that I can’t cook. I can cook!”
“I’ve been saying that for a long time,” he replied.
I’m self-taught in the kitchen except for the things I learned from my step-mom. I generally don’t measure when I cook except for things that require it, like bread. I’m a bit of my own thing in the kitchen, like the wild child found on a remote island. I become discombobulated easily, feeling that I need to focus on what I’m doing or I will ruin a meal. And I have ruined meals.
My inability to cook is an idea I’ve carried with me. This idea seeded at a young age, and by the time I finally learned how to cook later in life it had already set roots.
In other words, I learned the skill after my perceptions about myself were formed. I never bothered to modify the labels to match my experience.
I wonder about other labels I am holding, both consciously and not. How many would I apply to myself if I met myself for the first time today? How can I step back and see this current person, embrace my present self?
What definitions still linger in my mind from childhood, teens or my early days as an independent adult? I think about how much I have changed since those days.
What labels about yourself do you needlessly hold?