The Discipline Of Pleasure.

I am practicing the art of sanctuary.

Most days, my relationship with food is transactional. It's a quick fix of toast with butter and sea salt, or a delivery of street tacos from a James Beard nominee... Which is a luxury, sure. But one eaten out of a container. Or it's the Whole Foods rotisserie chicken, bought with a mindless wave of my hand at the register. 

It's sustenance, but it isn't ceremony. 

There;'s something inherently "darling" about cooking for oneself, but latelyI've realized it's more than just a whim. 

It's a necessity.

My mind has begun to require that I treat my own existence with the same romance and luxury I'd offer a guest. 

Maybe.

A recent Sunday Roast meal was a lovely example...

Roasted Chicken Thigh with Orzo and Flavored with Lemon, Dill, and Sauteed Leeks.

Obviously not a "quick fix". It required the discipline of patience... Waiting for chicken skin to become shatter-crisp. The sensory work of chopping the leeks. And the clinging of the dill against my finger tips.

Forcing myself to eat at the marble dining table... Creating a scene of beauty and balance. 

A quiet disciplined choice to give myself thee best.