The Happy Cook

Ah to cook and to drink and to eat what you cook, after you cook for hours to perfect that which you cook. The grease is still popping in the pan. The chef is kissed on the cheek by the chef's wife and then the mother kisses his cheek. "Oh, would grandmother have been oh so proud of his perfected meal and the spices that made it a delicacy.

To have worked hard to make this meal a work of art. "To have found or substituted the various seasonings and have made this dish of all dishes created before it, the talk of the town?" To live to see the years of training, the sweat, blood and tears that were put into this to make it into what it was at that moment. It was so beautiful and so delicious that it could have only been made from a secret long since lost or thought to be lost.

The books written in search of making this dish a masterpiece and yet so far to go before it could be only made once, in each person's lifetime and that with this could only make it more delectable, in such a way that it was going to make your mouth water with a desire for more. Yet they would have not made more because it was this one dish that was made in such a way, that no two dishes of the same, are never created equal. It would be only the one that would be the dish, yet it would not be like the second one created.

Only then would one have to prepare in at least two weeks in advance, finding the right ingredients, making the sauce to be so thick and so selective to add to the dish. It was as though God Himself had given you the ability to make such a dish the way He created the first perfect human being. The pasta and the sauce would be like a hand in glove metaphor. It would fit snuggly and yet still have room for things like garlic bread or something else to accentuate it like a perfectly paired couple to dance a forbidden dance.

In rhythm, in time, in patterned love of that which was passed down from one to another. The lessons learned and the lessons taught. It would make you wish you could be there, in person, when the first dish was made and perfected.

You see the vision of the dish as you were actually making the dish. You know the list of things to be placed in the dish; in the specific order they were placed. You see the instruments used to make the dish, while you find the pots and pans, used to make each part of the dish. The dish has many names, and it can be seen so plainly clear in your mind. Now seeking out and discovering those things needed, while take you to places that have been transformed or changed all together. Time has not dulled the excitement. Life has not made the moment less passionate.

You are in the kitchen that once held the master of the dish making, within their hands held the future of all dishes to be made. This one dish was never meant to be given to any outsiders. You were ashamed of the very thought of your passing it on to your wife, who was only family by marriage. But to see the desire and the passion in her eyes, not only by you but by all who came to know her. She was sworn to secrecy and a blood oath, a pact of epic proportions, was struck that day, in the kitchen that opened its walls up to allow this one beautifully created woman, to be brought into the circle of trust.

The dish was to be named in honor of her, as she literally took with her to her grave the very secret of the dish and anything that was added, was part of what she brought with her from her family's own traditions. The two families made the dish into the masterpiece that it became. It was welcomed by many and was even in some events part of thievery. Attempted thievery was more like it.

The wine paired with the dish was an aged vintage. Either of the exact same year or as close the same year as possible. The one who crafted this masterpiece knew that to keep the secret a closely guarded secret, would either be flown to the origin of the dish's humble beginnings. After arriving there, the craftsman would then be given a guided tour of the town and location first, then asked to remain there until they passed on. Like being given the keys to the city for keeping one's mouth tightly sealed shut.

While living in the city of the dish's start, you will be invited to start your own business, in the food industry as well, along with a nominal monthly fee allotted you, you are placed in the mayor's confidence, as you are introduced to a beautiful woman of your choosing, and a place to live in as long as you remain there for the rest of your life.

Imagine your surprise, when you are asked to do this in return for your silence for keeping a secret dish as secret as keeping your knowledge of all the things you learn about as president.

You may have to "think about it", all the while knowing that you could live in secluded paradise. You would be cut off from the outside world with the understanding you would never be allowed to make contact with anyone from your past, all for the idea of keeping this dish to yourself.

The dish is a tradition in this little, small village of Clushton. It brings with it a vast array of simple life and all the things you ever dreamed you wish you had before. The idea of being well taken care of by the good people of Clushton, make you feel at ease yet a little unsettled. it's as though you give up all your freedoms and the choices to make future decisions to keep the dish a secret, all the more for you to keep asking the questions.

Like. "Why is this simple pasta dish such a damn secret?" "Will I ever know the truth behind the dish?" "If I run now, will I be allowed to live to tell the secret behind the dish?"