On New Year’s Day, the inquisitive one sat down with a brand new pad of paper and brand new pen, both received as gifts the previous month.

The inquisitive one thought very seriously for a few minutes, biting softly on a thumb. Then suddenly, the inquisitive one removed the thumb from the mouth, picked up the pen, and wrote a string of words on the pad, reciting them aloud while writing:

“This year, I resolve to GROW more VEGETABLES, RUN more MILES, READ more BOOKS, and COOK more HEALTHY MEALS than I EVER have in ANY YEAR before!”

The inquisitive one underlined the key words several times and then drew little illustrations of veggies, running shoes, books, and cooking utensils all around the sentence on the pad. Happily, the inquisitive one tore the top sheet off the pad and taped it to the fridge.

But a week or so later—alas!—things were not going well as regards the resolution. You see, the inquisitive one had had some pretty impressive years in the past, in the realms of vegetable growing, mile running, book reading, and healthy meal cooking. This year so far, the inquisitive one had been sadly neglecting those activities, in favor of relative entertaining, light bulb replacing, nose blowing, highway driving, obscure fact Googling, schmancy gala attending, and frantic HVAC guy calling.

To make up for lost time, the inquisitive one tossed some dry beans, frozen kale, and stock in a crock pot, drove to the gym, got on a treadmill, and attempted to run while alternating between reading a novel and browsing a seed catalogue.

By the end of that day, the inquisitive one had decided to grow tomatoes, variety TBD; run half a mile; read half a page; and cooked a healthy meal that tasted like pebbles in a polluted stream.

Angrily, the inquisitive one snatched the resolution off the fridge, crumpled it up, and threw it away. The inquisitive one got out the special pad and pen and wrote a sentence on the topmost sheet, reciting the words while writing:

“This year, I resolve to make NO New Year’s resolution!!”

The inquisitive one, having neglected to draw anything around the sentence, proudly ripped off the sheet and taped it to the fridge.

The next day, however, the revised resolution did not sit well with the inquisitive one. Every time the inquisitive one went to get some string cheese, hummus, broccoli, butter, or whatever, the sentence seemed to stare outwards with menace.

After a couple of days of repeated, unsettling intimations from the fridge door, the inquisitive one tore down the paper, crumpled it up, and threw it away.

Once again, the inquisitive one got out the deliciously beautiful, and amazingly functional, pad and pen. Once again, the inquisitive one chewed softly on a thumb. And once again, suddenly the inquisitive one wrote and recited a sentence:

“This year, I resolve to make a New Year’s resolution.”

The inquisitive one decorated the page with illustrations of flowers, birds, clouds, and special pads and pens; boogie danced on over to the fridge; and taped it up.

The next day, the inquisitive one spent a lot of time working on a project for the boss, shopping for clothes, and talking on the phone.

The day after that, the inquisitive one went on a long run, finished reading the novel, and baked a big batch of granola.

And the day after that, the inquisitive one, with great excitement, decided to plant a variety of sweet pepper that was, according to the seed catalogue, “very productive,” “early maturing,” and “displease resistant.”

One thing Émile Zola handles particularly well in his novel The Ladies’ Paradise is contrast.

The existence or absence of contrast in a novel is, in fact, a pretty good indicator of quality. After all, it is only in relation to other things that we are able to perceive anything with any degree of accuracy or understanding.

Can we fully understand and appreciate joy and excitement without having sometime seen sorrow and frustration? What is virtuous living—or to use a more modern and secular term, wholehearted living—if not something to be contrasted with despicable or tormented living?

And so we have, in Zola’s novel, a rich character who hosts a social gathering “in her large Louis XVI. drawing-room, the brasses and brocatelle of which shone out with a clear gaiety.”

Her well-off guests drink tea and eat sponge cake surrounded by luxurious brass furnishings and brocatelle—the word means “raised design on upholstery or curtains”—and it is all very fancy and sophisticated and immaculate and charming.

Meanwhile, the employees of The Ladies’ Paradise dine noisily in the damp basement: all packed in together, eating less than palatable food. Everyone feels crowded, overworked, and hungry. And then comes one of my favorite lines in the novel:

“The walls reeked with moisture, a slow asphyxia fell from the moldy ceiling.”

This is, of course, a translation from the original French; but in English, anyway, it’s a stunning line. Asphyxia cannot actually fall from anywhere—the word means “lack of oxygen” or “suffocation” . . . and yet we know precisely what is meant. We can feel it! I wish I could read this line in the original French and experience it as it was written; but I’ll have to remain content, for now, with this version—and I’m more than content with it!

What are the best and worst social dining environments you’ve experienced?

I laughed aloud when I read this passage from Matthew B. Crawford’s book The World Beyond Your Head:

“I recently visited Las Vegas, a place designed for the single purpose of separating you from your money.”

It’s funny because—beneath the surface—it’s true. Las Vegas is exciting because it’s full of things humans are hard-wired to pay attention to: bright, flashy lights and shows; sexy cowboys and cowgirls, along with the prospect of easy sex; food chock-full of sugar, fat, and salt; alcohol for every taste and price range; free stuff; and the prospect, no matter how long the odds, of acquiring gobs of money with little effort—just to name a few of the attractions on offer in this photo alone. However, what appears to be an abundance of exciting choices is actually an elaborate series of funnels toward addiction and loss of control over one’s money and other resources, painstakingly calculated and orchestrated by those in control.

I have never experienced what it is like to be addicted to gambling; but I have experienced addiction to food. When Crawford talks about the “death instinct” of addiction to gambling, I know what he means. He spoke to gamblers who explained that they often feel the need to spend all their money—to “zero out”—so they can go home and rest. If there’s money left in their pocket, they feel a tension in the uncertainty of whether they will spend it. It feels more comfortable to spend it all, so you can relax.

Give me a big bag of chips, and I feel the same way. Even if my stomach is full to bursting and my mouth is burning from the salt, how could I possibly leave any of it uneaten? Then I will just worry endlessly, wondering whether I will eat the remainder. It’s better to keep eating until it’s impossible to continue, because it’s all gone or I’m too sick, or to somehow find a way to throw it out irretrievably. Then I can relax.

But . . . what about willpower? What about freedom of choice? Shouldn’t gamblers be allowed the freedom to spend their money as they wish? Shouldn’t I be allowed to eat an entire big bag of chips in one sitting, without some sort of food cop ripping the bag from my hands? If we choose to do these things, isn’t that our prerogative, and our responsibility to face the consequences?

Well, yes, of course. However . . . we should also think about society as a whole and what people are being funneled toward by entities (like big corporations) with exponentially more wealth and power than most individuals. We should think about ways that society, as well as individuals, might put checks on that wealth and power. Do people who live hundreds of miles from the nearest casino experience lower odds of becoming addicted to gambling? (Yes.) Do people who live hundreds of miles from the nearest junk food outlet have lower odds of becoming addicted to sugar, fat, and salt? (Yes.) Here’s some more wisdom from Crawford:

“We abstain on principle from condemning activities that leave one compromised and degraded, because we fear that disapproval of the activity would be paternalistic toward those who engage in it. We also abstain from affirming some substantive picture of human flourishing, for fear of imposing our values on others. This gives us a pleasant feeling: we have succeeded in not being paternalistic or presumptuous. The priority we give to avoiding these vices in particular is rooted in our respect for persons, understood as autonomous. ‘People should be allowed to make their own decisions.'”

Crawford’s point (that is, one of his many points), and it’s a subtle one, is that people are not wholly autonomous. A person does not live in the bubble of his/her own head. By definition, a human being is a creature residing in a real world and interfacing with that real world, every second of every day.

Do we want a real world full of slot machines and people mindlessly pushing buttons, and full of junk food outlets and people mindlessly stuffing chips down their throats until they get sick? Of course, there are many things that individuals can do to avoid such traps as much as possible; for example, I avoid keeping chips around the house and strive to form and keep healthy eating habits. But what can society, as opposed to individuals, do to reduce the number of people who are funneled into, as Crawford says, “activities that leave one compromised and degraded”?

Dare we imagine another world, a better way?

The inquisitive one attended a few runner’s club events and became friends with another runner. They decided to meet, on the following Sunday, at a trailhead and run south along the stream together.

“I grew pumpkins this year,” said the inquisitive one, between breaths while running. “I grew two kinds of pumpkins, one kind to carve and another kind to eat.”

“That’s great!” said the friend, between breaths while running. “You will have lots of fun doing those things. My latest DIY project is building a bar area in the basement. I also want to get a pool table.”

“That’s great!” said the inquisitive one. “You will have lots of fun doing those things.”

And so then, all while running south and turning and running back north, they talked about different kinds of pumpkins and how to carve and eat them, as well as basement bars and how to build them and the difference between pool and billiards.

When they got back to the trailhead, the inquisitive one said, “Running and talking with you was fun. I would love to meet for another run sometime!”

“I hate the pumpkin craze, this time of year,” replied the friend. “Pumpkins are disgusting. Growing them is a bad idea. Most people hate pumpkins. You should grow tomatoes, instead. That’s more normal, anyway.”

That’s when the friend hopped into a souped-up minivan and sped away.

When I think of wisdom,* I think of Henry David Thoreau and his 1854 book Walden; or, Life in the Woods. In Walden, Thoreau urges the reader, through both theoretical arguments and reflections on the two years he lived alone in the woods near Walden Pond, to simplify life and focus on what is really important—like health and wellness, quiet time alone, quiet conversations with friends, and an appreciation of nature and art.

What does this have to do with cooking? Well, everything. Some people are passionate about cooking and spend endless joyful hours reading recipes, shopping for ingredients, and working in the kitchen. If that’s you, that’s fabulous; and when can I come over? If that’s not you, or if you’re busy with other commitments that take precedence, one of life’s dilemmas is how to simplify the task of preparing meals while neglecting neither health and wellness, nor one’s appreciation of delicious food.

Of course, there is no lack of recipes intended to assist the reluctant or busy cook, the cook who is concerned about health, the cook who wishes to prepare delicious food, and even the cook who embodies all of these types. But while recipes are wonderful and useful, the reluctant or busy, health-conscious, epicurean cook may find that they often have drawbacks in these areas:

• Simplicity. Scanning through recipes and selecting one; buying ingredients, sometimes hunting through multiple aisles or stores to find them; rounding up utensils and appliances, sometimes not owning an item and having to buy it, borrow it, or figure out how to do without; and following elaborate instructions—all of this takes time and energy. If you don’t enjoy these tasks, or if you enjoy them but are too busy to do them often, it is helpful to simplify the process by cutting out unnecessary steps.
• Random leftover ingredients. Almost inevitably, you will have random leftover ingredients after following a recipe. This obligates you to find a new recipe that incorporates these random items. The new recipe, though, often leaves you with a different set of random leftover ingredients—and sometimes you still haven’t used up the items from the first recipe. So you fall into a vicious circle of always having to hunt for new recipes to use up random ingredients—or, alternatively, let these ingredients go to waste.
• Local food sourcing. If you have a garden or buy locally grown veggies, it can be tricky to find recipes that use the particular ingredients you happen to have on hand. Also, many recipes are impossible to make with locally grown vegetables, either because a particular veggie doesn’t grow in your area, or because the recipe uses two or more veggies that are harvested at different times of year—i.e., fresh asparagus (early spring) and fresh tomatoes (mid to late summer).
• Healthy eating and food requirements and preferences. Finding the perfect recipe, one that has just the ingredients you wish it to have, and not any ingredients you don’t wish it to have, can be frustrating and time consuming.

It can be exciting, instructive, and fun to follow a recipe. To assist with the times when it is not, I have written what I like to call my “Recipe to End All Recipes.” (See part 2 of this two-part series.) The “Recipe to End &c.” is flexible enough to work with whatever ingredients you happen to have on hand, and it results in meals that are simple, tasty, healthy—and dare I say wise?

*In case I have not made it sufficiently clear up until now, I would like to express that this blog is about seeking wisdom through books and elsewhere. For more information, visit my new About page.