“What are you doing right now,” I asked him. My seven-year-old had been gifted with an Apple watch for the holidays and was calling and texting incessantly. Siri tell mom I love you so much mom just wanted to tell you I love you ok goodbye. An hour later. Hey just brushin’ my teeth and wanted to say hi. Another half hour passes. Well just went to the bathroom mom. I miss you. For the record: I was not in agreement with the tech exposure at such a young age, but when you’re a single parent you can’t filter all the gifts and learning to let go of control of everything is a skill I’d like to continue to hone.
“Oh I don’t know what I’m doing,” he replied. “I guess I’m just walking around in circles.”
I loved his response. It was the unfiltered truth, untarnished by expectations of what the other person might think about a confession to doing nothing. But mostly I enjoyed hearing it because I know creativity sprouts when my kids get bored. When they aren’t overstimulated or inundated with flashing screens and stimuli their imaginations come wild and this is where magic happens. The ideas that turn a mundane day into something wondrous, like piling pillows on top of one another and pretending you live in a giant marshmallow, or flying paper airplanes into a roaring fireplace and pretending they’re jets crashing into a ball of flames, or opening up your mom’s cookbooks and applying post-it notes to the recipes that you can pronounce.
“Walking around in circles sounds so fun,” I told him. “Do you want to call me later and tell me more?” Sure, he said, and promptly hung up.
Afterwards it occurred to me that perhaps I should be walking around in circles more. Maybe in this new year I should devote more time to being aimless rather than checking tasks off a list or rushing from to-do to to-do. That maybe less chasing and more calling-in is the speed to travel by for now. If I let myself sink into being bored maybe I’ll permit myself to actually recharge my brain and spurn more creativity. If we’re turned on and tuned in all the time it’s hard to connect to the voice within, and if that channel gets dismembered then what’s the point?
Cooking is a powerful tool to zone out and relax if you let it be that way for you. Plus there’s a reward at the end. Marry creating a meal with tradition and you’re building an anchor—a solid rock—from which even more beautiful food stories can grow. These are the memories that get passed down over time. Not making it to the appointment right on time or answering every text or saying yes to everything and building a life so full of distractions you start to forget the uniqueness of your core self.
Here is our family’s tradition. Every year, on New Year’s Day, I make pork with sauerkraut and cooked apples. The lore behind the meal is that eating it will bring us good luck in the new year. It’s a German tradition and despite us bring predominantly Irish my mother made this meal for my dad and I on the first day of January since I was a child. I’d like to think it’s brought me good luck ever since. Even when that luck has disguised itself by hard times because true beauty can always sprout from pain.
I’ve made different iterations every year since my mom died, when there was no one to continue making the meal except me. Last year it was pulled pork and spätzle with a side of Brussels sprouts. This year it’s sautéed cabbage, horseradish mashed potatoes, and ribs seasoned with caraway. Maybe in 2024 it will turn into pizza toppings or a sandwich.
It doesn’t matter what the final outcome is, though. The point is there is a foundational recipe that keeps me grounded. And as soon as I feel comfortable making it—my hands following the recipe by memory rather than out of the pages of a book—there’s room to expand it, to rewrite the recipe to suit my taste for today without forgetting its origin. This is walking around in circles. The good stuff happens when you find yourself meandering off the path.
Turn your phone face down. Stay in your pajamas all day. Read the whole book. Watch the movie. Take the nap. Lie in your bed and stare at the ceiling. Take the hour-long bath and let your toes soften and close your eyes and do not for one second let your thoughts drift to what you need to do later in the day. Check out to check in and don’t feel guilty for it. Not for one breath. Wander outside and see where the day takes you and you might be surprised by who you meet or where you end up.
Soundtrack:
Food for Thought:
“Bored” by Margaret Atwood
All those times I was bored
out of my mind. Holding the log
while he sawed it. Holding
the string while he measured, boards,
distances between things, or pounded
stakes into the ground for rows and rows
of lettuces and beets, which I then (bored)
weeded. Or sat in the back
of the car, or sat still in boats,
sat, sat, while at the prow, stern, wheel
he drove, steered, paddled. It
wasn't even boredom, it was looking,
looking hard and up close at the small
details. Myopia. The worn gunwales,
the intricate twill of the seat
cover. The acid crumbs of loam, the granular
pink rock, its igneous veins, the sea-fans
of dry moss, the blackish and then the graying
bristles on the back of his neck.
Sometimes he would whistle, sometimes
I would. The boring rhythm of doing
things over and over, carrying
the wood, drying
the dishes. Such minutiae. It's what
the animals spend most of their time at,
ferrying the sand, grain by grain, from their tunnels,
shuffling the leaves in their burrows. He pointed
such things out, and I would look
at the whorled texture of his square finger, earth under
the nail. Why do I remember it as sunnier
all the time then, although it more often
rained, and more birdsong?
I could hardly wait to get
the hell out of there to
anywhere else. Perhaps though
boredom is happier. It is for dogs or
groundhogs. Now I wouldn't be bored.
Now I would know too much.
Now I would know.
I love this piece. I needed to read this today. Thank you.