American life can be overwhelming and thus doing something the simple or old fashioned way can be very satisfying. During my time in Romania, I would often bake a chicken and make mashed potatoes. Since my kitchen there was outfitted with only basic utensils, I did it all by hand, and thus the process ended up taking about 2 hours. During that time I’d read and wait as the aroma of chicken and the steam from the boiling potatoes rolled out from the kitchen, slowly spreading throughout the entire apartment.

The other day, as I was shopping at Hannaford (it was in the cereal isle, confronted with 100 choices of corn bran and wheat products,) I realized that I had not baked a chicken since I had been back. And so tonight I did.

What is the joy of cooking a chicken, you may wonder? Well, unlike a pre-packaged breast or thigh, the bird is a bit unwieldy and you must really touch it during the preparation phase. First you rinse it, then brush it with oil and rub spices all over. This last bit is very satisfying because it is the point at which you can begin to really smell and anticipate the taste of what is to come. Of course it’s not all glamorous. You have to be careful to wash your hands and anything that comes into contact with the raw chicken, but I believe that this is a small price to pay for being connected to what one eats.

As the chicken was baking and the potatoes boiling, I finished a book and thought of how grand and wonderful life ought to be. The reward was as I expected, a familiar delight, a luxury brought about by time, an understanding that faster is not always better, and that more is relative. I’m not sure where that chicken came from, other than the store, so my whimsical moment really only extends so far; yet I am both content with where I have taken it and constantly striving to see where it goes next.