text: Cooking is an art. This is a very underrated statement, and many people can’t seem to fully appreciate that fact. I indulge in cooking from time to time as a hobby, and a rather passionate one at that. My busy work-life grants me little time to do what I love so, when I do get that precious time, I cook like there’s no tomorrow. It is a meticulous process, but in the end; the exploding taste buds and each individual flavor blending in perfect synchrony, almost like the instruments in an orchestra, create a paradise...no, heaven in my mouth; and that gives me enough reason to do what I do the way I do it. Tonight is a special one. I’ll be spending the evening making one of my all-time favorite dishes; the chicken sausage pasta; with a side of steak. And, I thought I’ll walk you through it. Obviously, the first thing to do is to collect the required ingredients. I consider myself to be a man of purity. Everything I touch, eat, even the air I breathe; is and has to be pure. It is following this reason that the source for my ingredients is local produce; my local produce. I have a farm where I grow everything I require not too far from the city; I think of it as my personal supermarket. This farm provides me with everything, with the exception of meat. Another one of my hobbies is hunting; it takes me back to our roots and almost humbles me; looking at how far we’ve come since the time of hunters and gatherers. After a trip to the farm, it’s time to get the meat. This is one of the more elaborate steps in the cooking process. It usually takes around 4-5 days. First, I pick my target. The selection process involves a lot of factors; a lot of them depend on the dish I’ll be making and also the consistency of the finished product. Then, I capture my meat source when it’s in solitude; away from all its brethren. First, I corner it into a tight space, then; I lock eyes with it. As my prey slowly starts to lose its grip on reality, becoming a shell of what it once was, a confused being; I make my move, usually with the help of a sack. What follows is an hour or two of undisturbed, concentrated “surgery”. It is a bit out of place calling it that, yes, but; given the amount of effort I put into getting the meat that I’ll be using in the final process, I think it’s fair to label it as such. The slaughterhouse serves as the operation theatre, I; the doctor, and actually, the tools remain pretty much the same. The first step is to cut out the flesh. The realization that there’s no savior, that this is the end; and their eyes slowly filling with fear while frantically moving around in search of that last non-existent ray of hope as the cold, metallic scalpel makes contact with their skin excites me; it...entices me. Something stirs inside, and there’s this unknown rush I get; it’s a high and it’s beautiful. Given that I’ve been pursuing this hobby for about five years, I’ve been only recently been able to make these cuts on them without having to experience that shrill, high-pitched noise we call screams. It’s amazing how we hear their voices all around us every day and yet they become demonic the moment they’re under slight discomfort. Now, once the cuts have been made, I weigh up the required amount, wash it thoroughly, and keep it aside. The prey has been made as if transparent, each and every organ on display; much to my delight. Listening closely, you realize that each organ beats, or moves in perfect sync, my personal orchestra; with me as the conductor. Watching their life slowly leave their body with every organ, every piece of flesh removed is another sight that gives me the same high as before. I guess you could say cooking’s my drug. This is the standard procedure for the torso. When it comes to the thighs and/or head, I resort to something more...quick. To get meat from the legs, I resort to the Maguro Bōchō, a long, highly specialized sword used by the Japanese to fillet tuna. I’d say it serves the same purpose here, a clean-cut, in one swoop. If they’ve managed to survive all this, I put them out of their misery. My meat cleaver is a perfect fit for this job. Like the traditional Guillotine, the last thing my prey sees is metal being brought down on them. Even in their final moments, some of them try to wriggle themselves out of this pickle by pleading with their eyes. Futile, but it always manages to get a laugh out of me. Then, I glance over to get a final look at their still-beating heart, mirroring their rolling head, and both slowly coming to stop simultaneously. And now, it’s time to fuel my passion with the fire within me. In the kitchen, I become a different person. I usually put on some music in the background, usually Mozart or Beethoven and it transports me to another world. Time goes by and each and every step of the recipe is executed with perfection, precision, passion, and patience. The cooking utensils dance on the food, just as puppets would, and I become the puppeteer. The flame does its job as it should, giving a layer of light brown on the meat. The floor loses its friction, becoming smooth as marble as I glide through the kitchen piecing together the final part of the puzzle. And just like that, I’ve created yet another masterpiece. Ah! That’s the doorbell, my guests have arrived, just on time. I’m having a few friends over for dinner. You know, since they’re here, I might as well stock up for my next trip to the farm...