“When you realize there is nothing lacking, the whole world belongs to you.”
—Lao Tzu (6th century BCE; ancient Chinese philosopher and founder of Taoism. His teachings emphasize harmony with the natural flow of life.)
Ta-TUM. Ta-TUM. Ta-TUM.
With rhythmic precision, it keeps pounding just like my heart.
But it’s not my heart.
It’s my mind, beating to the same rhythm, chanting.
I want. I want. I want.
In my most recent chant, I wanted Francesco Mattano’s famed Peposo, a traditional Tuscan Red Wine Beef Stew. It’s so simple with just a few ingredients: garlic, beef, salt, coarsely ground black pepper, a bouquet garni, and red wine. Simmered for several hours and served up in a well of buttered polenta, it’s the recipe’s clean simplicity that makes it so sinfully delicious.
Altroché! That’s just what I wanted–an entree promising good-to-the-last-bite deliciousness. At the same time, I was well aware that I had leftover pork tenderloin as well as chicken salad.
Once upon a time, I would have rushed off to the grocery store, bought the provisions for Peposo, and celebrated another culinary triumph.
These days, however, even though my wants are as rhythmic as my heart, I am pulling back as I try to reconcile what Iwant with what Ihave.
With food, for example, I wanted Francesco’s stew, but I had pork tenderloin and chicken salad already prepared. The craving was there, but so was a perfectly good meal.
Take books, for example. I’ve dedicated decades of my life to Mary E. Wilkins Freeman, and I’ve amassed a significant collection. But I want to chase after one more obscure letter or document that will make my already rich archive even richer.
What about dating? I want romance—not out of need, but out of hope. My life is full and meaningful, yet I’d love to share it with someone who brings his own fullness—a shared life made richer by both of us.
Even in garden centers, new specimen evergreens whisper, “Take me. Plant me.” But I already have a beautiful Zen-like landscape.
I’m also trying to reconcile what I want with what I need.
I might want dessert, but what I need is a meal that aligns with my health goals. I’m cutting out sweets but keeping nightly Bunnahabhain—for balance!
When it comes to fitness, I might want quick results, but I need consistency not as much in biking as in weight training. At my age–no, at any age–real strength comes from steady, intentional effort.
What about my writing? I want more time to write, but I need to manage my other commitments more wisely so that I have the time I need.
Even in relationships, I want certainty, but I need to let connections unfold naturally—his rhythm, my rhythm, coming into step together.
The more I realize that I don’t need everything I want and that, in reality, I already have what I need, the more I’m discovering new dimensions of freedom.
What had been a constant search for more, whether material things, achievements, or validation, has given way to peace.
What had been a scarcity mindset has become a focus on embracing abundance—not in excess, but in sufficiency.
What had been a notion that having more means being more has yielded to the realization that I’m already enough.
What had been impulse is now intentional as I make choices that nourish me rather than just satisfy my fleeting cravings.
I’m shifting from grasping to gratitude, from craving to contentment.
I’m no longer mistaking wants for purpose. I’m recognizing that growth, connection, and presence matter more.
I’m starting to trust the rhythm of life, just like I trust the rhythm of my own heart.
My heart beats on, steady and sure— not demanding, just existing.
It thumps a lesson that I’m learning: I don’t have to chase every want. What I need is already here—or on its way, arriving in the fullness of time.
“Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?
—Mary Oliver (1935–2019; American poet celebrated for her keen observations of nature, the human spirit, and the connection between the two. Oliver’s poetry encourages readers to engage deeply with the world around them and to embrace life’s moments with curiosity and intention.)
Crunchy fried chicken, its golden-brown crust crackling with every bite. Check. Pimento cheese potato salad, creamy and tangy, with just enough bite to earn nods of approval. Check. Green beans simmered long and slow, tender and rich with the deep, smoky whisper of a ham hock. Check. Sliced tomatoes, their sun-ripened juices glistening under a light sprinkle of salt. Check. Peach pie cooling on the counter, its buttery crust cradling syrupy, sun-warmed fruit, promising the perfect sweet finish. Check.
Dinner was falling into shape, as country as country could be—homey, solid, the kind of meal that settles deep and satisfies. Except I hadn’t made my sourdough biscuits. And it’s those damned biscuits that caused the problem.
Easy peasy. Sourdough discard. Flour. Butter. Milk. Salt. It’s hard to imagine that such a modest assemblage could rise up to become so flaky and tender, hundreds of layers as light and lofty as billowy clouds. But that always happens, in record time.
Get this. I had all the ingredients lined up, waiting for the gentle touch of my deft hands to spring into action. But with my measure mid-air, I stopped in a heated exchange of self-talk:
“I don’t want to bother.”
“Come on. They only take ten minutes.”
“But everything else is done. Why mess up the kitchen now?”
“Biscuits. You always make biscuits.”
“Not tonight.”
“Come on. Just mix the dough.”
“No.”
“You’ll regret it.”
“No. I won’t.”
I set the measuring cup down, exhaled hard, walked away, and floured one up to “I don’t want to bother.”
I’d like to think that ended my self-talk on that topic. It did, for a while. After all, with a meal that was a culinary triumph by anyone’s standards, who needs biscuits?
But here’s the thing. The next day, those biscuits got on my case. In reality, it wasn’t the biscuits. It couldn’t have been since I didn’t make them. It was the underlying reason for not making them that started eating away at me:
“I don’t want to bother.”
I mean, let’s face it. I could have said any number of things:
“I don’t want to.”
“I’m tired. I need a break.”
“With a spread like that, who needs biscuits?”
I didn’t say any of those things because they just weren’t true. My truth was what I had told myself:
“I don’t want to bother.”
Bother. That’s the word that stuck in my craw. Bother—a term that’s been around since at least 1842, when someone first wrote, “We can’t do it at all, we can’t be bothered.” And here I was, almost two centuries later, falling into the same trap.
Realistically, one single utterance should be no cause for alarm. Right? I’m not so certain.
What if it moved from biscuits to other areas of my life?
What about brushing Ruby, my best dog ever? It would be easier to let it slide.
What about publishing my blog posts, week after week after week? It would be a lot easier to skip a week here, there, forever.
What about pushing through with my daily biking routine? It would be a lot easier to bike fewer miles every day or to skip a day now and then.
What about finishing a major research project? It would be a lot easier to put it aside.
Luckily, I haven’t allowed “I don’t want to bother” to prevail. And look at the results.
I have a well-groomed faithful companion, Ruby. I have a blog with a track record for being published every Monday morning before seven just as regularly as clockwork. I bike 15-20 miles every day, seven days a week, knowing that it never gets easier. I just solved one of America’s greatest literary mysteries–Unmasking The Humourist: Alexander Gordon’s Lost Essays of Colonial Charleston, South Carolina. The Humourist’s incisive voice will now be heard once more.
I hope, especially as I age, that I will never let “I don’t want to bother” prevail. Here’s why.
It seems to me that the more we avoid doing things, the smaller our world becomes. What starts as skipping small inconveniences—like making biscuits or brushing the dog—can gradually turn into avoiding new experiences, opportunities, and relationships. The mindset can shift from “I don’t want to bother” to the even more passive “I can’t be bothered.”
It seems to me that the best experiences in life often require an extra push—whether in personal growth, relationships, or creativity. Habitual avoidance means fewer “What if?” moments that lead to breakthroughs or unexpected joys. Sometimes we find ourselves in a rut, not because we lack talent, intelligence, or resources, but simply because we repeatedly choose the path of least resistance.
It seems to me that friendships and family connections need tending. If “I don’t want to bother” becomes the default, relationships slowly fade through neglect. This can lead to isolation, where we wake up one day and realize we haven’t had a meaningful conversation in weeks or months.
It seems to me that small decisions accumulate. If we regularly skip writing, gardening, dating, or learning new things, we might later look back and wonder, “What did I do with all that time?”
It seems to me that the difference between people who feel satisfied with life and those who feel unfulfilled often comes down to these small moments of effort—choosing to bother when it counts.
Believe me. The next time I serve up a meal like that—or any meal, for that matter—I won’t hesitate. I’ll bother.
“Stealing a recipe is like stealing a kiss—do it boldly, do it well, and for heaven’s sake, make sure it leaves them wanting more.”
–—Me, just now, in the grand tradition of misattributed wisdom.
Rare is the occasion that finds me speechless, but this may be one of them. I h ave come up with an idea whose brilliance is beyond brilliant, and the only way that I know how to share it is in the context of a comment that Oscar Wilde may have made on January 3, 1882. When he disembarked from the ship that brought him to New York and went to the Customs House, government agents asked their standard question:
“Do you have anything to declare?“
Wilde supposedly answered:
“I have nothing to declare except my genius.”
I realize, of course, that I must tweak Wilde’s quote if it is to serve my purpose, and I will do so. I think there’s nothing wrong with doing that. Actually, I think it’s fine and dandy since I have given him credit, though I don’t see why that’s really necessary since the attribution to Wilde is more than likely erroneous. But I will err on the side of my integrity by retaining the probable misattribution. I have changed the quote by one word, albeit a significant one, thereby making it my own. Henceforth, it will be mine. All mine.
“I have nothing to declare except my culinary genius.”
Many of you–myDearReaders–know about my culinary genius already, because I have hinted at it from time to time. However, my FB followers know about it far better because with them, I know no shame. I post frequent photos of my culinary masterpieces. Truthfully, I like to think of them as Food Porn. Only a few days ago, I shared my unabashed celebration of culinary desire, where a crackling sourdough Margherita pizza stole the spotlight. It had a blistered crust, air pockets rose like tiny golden mountains, bubbling mozzarella stretched into molten strands, and fresh basil leaves fluttered atop like green confetti. And get this. My photo showed it being served up before a roaring kitchen fireplace. It was more than just a meal. It was a hearthside seduction, a slow dance of flavors and flickering flames, teasing all the senses and leaving anyone looking utterly and deliciously captivated.
Inevitably, when I share those food porn photos, at least one person–usually more than one–comments:
“You need to publish a cookbook.”
I decline, demurely.
After all, I have so many other books in the fire that tackling a cookbook has always struck me as more than I can swallow. But things changed just the other day when I took a hankering for some Nuoc Cham-Inspired Meatballs. I love them, and they’re not that difficult to make. I Googled a recipe, and one by NYT Cooking popped up! Hot damn! I decided that I’d go with it. Then I discovered that in order to see the full recipe, I’d have to subscribe, and these days with the price of eggs going up and up and up, I just can’t afford to subscribe to recipes.
I just kept right on Googling, and before long, I discovered the same recipe splattered everywhere. That set me to thinking about Copyright infringements. Not to worry! Did you know that you can’t get a copyright or a patent on a recipe?
“Say whaat?”
It’s true. I won’t get into the (legal) weed(s), but recipes themselves can’t be copyrighted. However, if the recipe involves a unique step or process or if it takes on a literary twist, then it can be.
Unique literary twist???
OMG! Am I literary and twisted or what? I know how to fool around with words. This is super sweet. I’ll play around with one recipe–the NYT Cooking recipe for Nuoc Cham-Inspired Meatballs that I found verbatim on multiple websites without a crumb of credit given on any.
Give me a minute or five. I swear it won’t take long. I’m good with foolin’ around. BRB.
See. That didn’t take long at all. I just came up with a razzle-dazzle literary narrative to go with the recipe:
“I remember the first time I had them—golden, fragrant, and suspiciously addictive. A close acquaintance, let’s call him ‘Brentford Lee’ (because that’s his real name), swore he had perfected the recipe himself. ‘A dash of this, a pinch of that,’ he said, waving his hand like some sorcerer of Southeast Asian flavors. I nodded, politely chewing, my palate deciphering the unmistakable signature of a recipe I’d seen before. Somewhere.
“Of course, it didn’t take much sleuthing to confirm my hunch. The same ratios, the same sequence—right down to the crushed Ritz crackers binding it all together. A carbon copy of a certain prestigious publication’s recipe, passed off as Brentford Lee’s divine inspiration. But could I call him out? No, no. We live in the Age of No Credit, where recipes are pilfered like unattended bicycles and reposted without so much as a footnote.
“So I let him bask in his culinary genius, even as I swirled my meatball in a bit of nuoc cham and smiled. ‘Brilliant, Brentford Lee. Just brilliant.’ Meanwhile, I tucked the recipe into my mental vault—because in this lawless land of recipe anarchy, the only rule is to steal it back.”
I had no sooner drafted that dazzling literary narrative than I realized I was on to something. I could do an entire cookbook, stealing recipes from the world’s most renowned chefs, dress them all up in my literary garb–the recipes, not the chefs though that’s (food) porn for thought, too–compile them into a newfangled cookbook arranged by food categories like Appetizers, Salads, Soups, Mains, and Desserts, publish the book, and file my Copyright.
And just to bring this heist full circle, I’ve decided to submit my proposal to NYT Cooking. I figure, if they’re going to make me pay for recipes, they might as well pay me for the privilege of publishing my stolen ones first. A fair trade, don’t you think?
“I have nothing to declare except my culinary genius.”
Let’s see, I think you, myDear Readers, deserve a modest tasting menu of what my extraordinarily extraordinary cookbook will be like so that I can pleasure your palate.
APPETIZERS: A PRELUDE TO LARCENY
“Stealing a recipe is like stealing a kiss—do it boldly, do it well, and for heaven’s sake, make sure it leaves them wanting more.”
–—Me, just now, in the grand tradition of misattributed wisdom
Every great heist starts small. A lifted truffle from a posh soirée. A swiped canapé from a silver tray when the host isn’t looking. A recipe, pilfered in broad daylight, then draped in literary velvet until it’s unrecognizable from its humble origins.
This section is the opening act, the whispered promise of what’s to come. Here, I present to you the stolen first bites—the small, seductive preludes to full-blown culinary mischief. Grab a plate. No one’s watching.
SALADS: LEAFY DECEPTION
“A salad is merely a plate of stolen ingredients pretending to be virtuous.”
—Me, again, because who’s stopping me?
Salads are the original confidence tricksters of the culinary world. They lure you in with the promise of health and innocence, then smother you in cheese, nuts, crispy bits, and a dressing so rich it might as well be dessert. They are gilded greenery, whispered excess, a balancing act between penance and indulgence.
And so, in keeping with the Age of No Credit, I present a selection of salads—each one an outright theft, draped in just enough literary flourish to make it legally mine. Grab your fork. Justice is dressed and ready to serve.
SOUPS: LIQUID LARCENY
“A good soup is like a well-told lie—it simmers, deepens, and by the time you taste it, you don’t even care where it came from.”
—A philosopher (probably). Or me (definitely).
Soup is the ultimate culinary illusion—a cauldron of borrowed flavors, a slow-simmered scam where even the simplest broth has a backstory so tangled in history, no one really knows who made it first. And that’s exactly why it belongs in this book.
Ladle deep, myDearReaders, into the warm, uncharted waters of plagiarism, where the spoons are heavy, the bowls are bottomless, and the only thing hotter than the bisque is the lack of attribution.
MAINS: GRAND THEFT ENTREE
“Behind every great main course is a chef who swiped the idea from someone else first.”
–Not Escoffier, but could have been.
This is where the stakes get serious. The main event. The crown jewel of culinary heists. A place where time-honored traditions meet a well-timed Ctrl+C, Ctrl+V.
Here, I serve up lavishly pilfered plates—steaks seared with someone else’s technique, roasts glazed in repurposed brilliance, pastas dressed in the creativity of long-forgotten hands. And yet, because I have woven them into my own dazzling narrative, they are now mine. All mine.
Bon appétit, legally speaking.
DESSERTS: SWEET, SWEET PLUNDER
“The best things in life are stolen. Ask anyone who’s ever ‘borrowed’ a cookie recipe and never returned it.”
—A confectionery thief with no regrets.
Dessert is the final seduction, the last laugh of the larcenous chef. Here, sugar and butter conspire in broad daylight, drizzled in caramelized deceit, dusted with the powdered sugar of plausible deniability.
From towering cakes to pies with scandalous backstories, I offer you this sticky-fingered collection of confections—every one taken, tweaked, and rebranded with just enough literary flourish to make it legally binding.
Because in the Age of No Credit, the only sin greater than theft is not licking the spoon.
_____________________
Voila! I have just uncloched the sections of my forthcoming cookbook. Maybe I’ll title it Cooking with Oscar. Or how about Culinary Heists of a Wilde Chef? I’ll keep thinking, but here’s the great part. What I’ve disrobed right here in front of you is protected by Copyright already because my blog is Copyrighted. All that remains for me to do is continue scouring the Internet. Whenever I find a recipe worthy of stealing in broad daylight, I shall do so. Then I shall dress it up–or down–in literary flamboyance and insert it into the proper section of my culinary opus in progress.
Food has never tasted this good, and, to think, it all began with my honest effort to find a Nuoc Cham-Inspired Meatball recipe. I guess it just goes to prove that a good recipe is not hard to find.
“There is a garden in every childhood, an enchanted place where colors are brighter, the air softer, and the morning more fragrant than ever again.”
Elizabeth Lawrence (1904-1985; internationally known gardener, considered to be one of the top twenty-five gardeners of all time).
Last night for dinner, I had a hankering for something. I didn’t know quite what. I wanted something light but rich. Is that a contradiction or what? I guess it depends on how you look at it. To me, the two extremes seemed not only desirable but also possible.
Beyond that, all that I knew about my hankering was that I wanted it to be maybe just a little lemony and maybe just a little grassy and with maybe just a hint of anise or licorice. In that instant of maybe’s, I knew that my hankering needed to honor dill. Fresh dill. Fragrant dill.
Simply put, my stomach was growling me to pursue an entrée that was light, rich, lemony and dilly.
I cannot help but pause here and ask:
“Within those parameters, what entrée would you have plated for yourself?”
And, of course, you have every right to pause here and ask the same of me:
“Within those parameters, what entrée did you plate for yourself?”
And, as you know fully well, I will answer your question fully.
I’m always telling friends about my dinners, often sending them photos, whereupon they invariably message me that I need to feature my food on Instagram, whereupon I always ask:
“Does that mean that I have achieved the culinary level of Food Porn?”
I’m still waiting for answers.
But I won’t keep you waiting. I will tell you what I made.
As I drove to the grocery store to get some fresh ingredients–the essence of everything that I plate up–I started thinking about pasta in vodka sauce, but a red sauce seemed too heavy. How about pasta in a white vodka sauce? Perfect. Butter and cream equal richness. I could add marinated artichoke hearts for a subtle tang. The focal point could be ruffle-edged ravioli, domed with ground chicken. Stir in some freshly squeezed lemon juice. Top with an abundance of fresh dill. My. Perfect. Plate. And it was my perfect plate for that night’s dinner. Light. Rich. Lemony. Dilly.
As I sat at my table, feeling ever so satisfied with the luscious entrée that I created without benefit of recipe, I floated suddenly out of my mountain-top dining room. I floated out of the Shenandoah Valley where I live. I floated out of 2023.
I landed in 1957. I landed in my West Virginia boyhood hometown. I landed in the yard where I had played so often with Stevie, a childhood friend.
I went right past the galvanized tubs, always there in his yard, always with one or more catfish swimming around in fresh clean water to soften the muddiness inherent in their taste.
I went right past the foldable, aluminum-frame, green-and-white webbed lawn chairs, circling a ribbed, split-oak basket filled with corn, hands of all ages rhythmically shucking, tossing the shucks and silks into brown paper sacks getting fuller and fuller.
I went right past the two side-by-side mulberry trees–umbrellas above us–as we sat beneath, competing with the darting black-capped, gray catbirds for the ripest, thumb-sized mulberries certain to stain our clothes as much as they purpled our teeth and tongues.
I went right past the stone granary–stifling hot inside from the sun outside, blazing down on the uninsulated tin roof. On the lower floor, corn drying in chicken-wire bins; on the upper, walnuts blackening on thick, chestnut floors.
I went right past Stevie’s aproned mother, flinging rainbows of dishwater into the kitchen-stoop air.
I went right past all of those things.
Instead, I floated to a warm, misty summer rain falling on a large patch of dill, large beyond the need to measure, but at least 30 feet by 30 feet–large enough for two young boys to lose themselves.
Stevie and I would strip down to our skivvies and run with wild, barefoot abandon through the patch of dill, as mindless of our innocence as we were mindful of the heady fragrance scenting the air and our bodies as we rubbed against the dill on those summer days when misty rain fell.
And so, it was. My impromptu dinner–built around little more than a hankering that begged for fulfillment–took me back to that self-same patch of dill. It took me back with such vibrant and vivid certainty that if I had a patch of dill right here on my mountain and if the warm summer rain fell upon it now as it fell upon it then, I vow that I would–in this, my 75th summer–strip down to my skivvies and run barefoot through the enchanted patch, confident that my rubbings against the dill would burst wide open those magical days of childhood innocence, as fragrant as ever again.
The Wired Researcher 