TIME IS A TEASE. It leads you on in a rush—whoosh! Another year, gone?—yet once it slows down it seems it will never deliver the thing you’re waiting for. You’re always waiting for something, aren’t you? You are if you’re anything like me, head in the future a bit too much.

My days usually start like that, in a blur of activity, eating a cup of yogurt while standing in the kitchen, juggling the morning routine and planning the rest of my day. Too much going on. When I do have more time for breakfast, sometimes I boil an egg, and then of course I hover over the pot, scowling. I can hear someone (mother? grandmother?) reminding me: “A watched pot never boils.”

This year I’ve decided to shake up my sense of time, of its passing and its worth. The main catalyst for my decision was an email I received from the Village Zendo (a Buddhist meditation center) that I used to frequent but then drifted away from, due to the usual excuse: not enough time. Ha! The email announced a course called 365, based on a book by Stephen Levine called A Year to Live. The course meets twelve times—monthly, for a year—and its premise is what you can imagine: You have 365 days left to live. That is all. What does this mean to you? What does this change and what would you change? It’s a bit of a false question to answer, and yet—who knows? Most of us, as Levine points out in his book, cannot “afford to put this [inquiry] off any longer, because almost no one knows the day on which the last year begins.”

For me, the first day of the “last” year (hopefully I have at least a year left!) began the morning after the introductory meeting at the zendo. I pledged to make it begin the right way, with a meal at which I was fully present and aware. Forget the mindless shoveling of cereal into my gullet while multitasking. The beginning of Levine’s book (all of Zen, for that matter) focuses on staying present as an act of affirmation, being fully alive and conscious in the here-and-now, the one dimension of time that matters.

It was time to cook quinoa with savory condiments for breakfast.

One of my favorite cookbooks is called Three Bowls: Vegetarian Recipes from an American Zen Buddhist Monastery. (The monastery in question is Dai Bosatsu Zendo, in the Catskills; follow the link to their site, store, and books section for the cookbook.) I am not a vegetarian, nor am I Buddhist, despite my sometimes-practice of meditation, but this cookbook speaks to me in an important way. In addition to being a book with wonderful recipes, it’s also a gentle guide to matters of spirit. It’s the book I go to whenever I sense the need to slow things down in my cooking—”slow” being more of an attitude adjustment than anything related to the time it takes to make a dish. In the book’s foreword, Abbot Eido T. Shimano Roshi lists the three important minds a cook should have: Joyful Mind, Great Mind, and Mature Mind (from Instructions to a Tenzo, by 13th-century Zen master, Dogen Zenji). Roshi writes that cooking “is not only the preparation of food but a practice of spirituality. A practice of spirituality means not wasting even the stem of a vegetable. It involves economy of movement, punctuality, and beauty of presentation.” It’s a tall order, cooking that way.

One of the breakfast recipes in the book is for “Cream of Quinoa.” There’s no cream or milk in it, just the super-nutritious quinoa grains cooked with water until thick; a hearty porridge substitute for wheat or oats. As with a bowl of oatmeal, there is great flexibility in how you can season the quinoa. For breakfast, many people will prefer a drizzle of maple syrup or a sprinkling of cinnamon, a topping of raisins or other fruit. I decided to really “go Zen” with my breakfast bowl—that is, to select an assortment of savory condiments more in the style of a traditional Japanese meal. And to remind myself of the qualities of joy, greatness, and maturity, I decided to prepare: a boiled egg, sliced scallions, and a mixture of sesame seeds, salt, and nori.

The egg, for some reason, turned out to be the best boiled egg I ever made. I’m not kidding. Why was this? Was it because I made myself practice more patience than usual? Because I waited until the water had begun to boil to lower my from-the-fridge egg into the pot, instead of just putting it in at the start (and therefore being imprecise with the amount of time it actually cooked)? Perhaps it was because I did not decide that ten minutes on the timer was enough for me to run to my desk and get involved in something else, only to later forget the value of punctuality and let the timer scream until it burned itself out and I had completed my whatever-it-was-that-couldn’t-wait. No, this time, I stayed in the kitchen, protective of my breakfast, the first in a year of “lasts.” Whatever the reason (probably a combination), the end result was a tight and springy orbit of white around a fully cooked yet moist, perfectly colored yolk (no gray-green ring from negligent overcooking). The shell peeled away easily, and in my hand was a single perfect thing, warm and comforting. I crumbled it with my fingers instead of chopping it with a knife. Joy!

Scallions were to be my greatness. In a sense this was true, if you count the fact that I paid a great deal of attention to slicing my one scallion on a sharp diagonal, and at regular intervals. I was mindful—but forget economy of movement. What I realized while slicing was that my knife was way too dull, despite the fact that I had just sharpened it. Instead of a clean slice, I had to saw the ends a bit. Note to self: learn to properly sharpen the kitchen knives! I might have to review this post at Tea and Cookies (”The Joy of a Sharp Knife”).

As for Mature Mind, I think it will take a lot more meditation for me to understand how to apply this to my kitchen work, what is truly meant by that. But I did think about maturity in the sense of age and depth of character—or, in this case, flavor. To represent this quality, I chose to add a sesame-and-salt condiment called “gomasio,” plus some toasted nori flakes, to my breakfast bowl. The mysterious deep-sea taste, mixed with salt and earthy seeds . . . well, it was a hearty pleasure, mature or not.

For beauty of presentation, I’ll let you be the judge. What I will say in my defense is that I actually took the time to arrange the condiments on a plate instead of piling them up in a heap on the counter and then dumping them without ceremony on top of the completed dish. I always take extreme care with pastry, but usually not so much in a dish like this one. Maybe an A for effort?

I am not fooling myself into thinking that I will be able to prepare a breakfast like this for myself every day—or even if I were able, that I would always follow through on that ability. But bringing my entire attention to bear on this very simple breakfast made the meal taste so much better. It felt great to be focused only on the very instant unfolding. Stirring was only the movement of a spoon; slicing, that of a knife. The cooking process seemed magical again to me, in a way it often doesn’t (when I’m rushing or running through a mental list of errands at the same time), and with the morning sunlight and the finished breakfast bowl came a moment of authentic joy at what lay before me—not just on the table, but in my next and “last” 364 days. For me, that’s a worthy start.

Quinoa Breakfast Bowl

Inspired by “Cream of Quinoa” in the book Three Bowls, from Dai Bosatsu Zendo

Yield: 1-2 Servings

Ingredients:

1/2 cup quinoa, rinsed well and drained

2 cups water

1 generous pinch sea salt

1 boiled egg, crumbled by hand

1 scallion, thinly sliced on a sharp diagonal

1 Tablespoon toasted sesame seeds or “gomasio” condiment

1 teaspoon nori granules or flakes

Method:

In a saucepan, bring the water, quinoa, and salt to a boil. Reduce the heat to very low, cover, and cook until thickened, about 30 minutes.

While the quinoa is cooking, prepare the boiled egg and sliced scallion; measure out the sesame seeds and nori. Do everything with deliberation. If you have prepared condiments in advance, use the cooking time to sit quietly if you can; think about the transformative nature of kitchen work, its benefits for the body and soul.

When ready to serve, take time to arrange the condiments nicely on individual dishes, in bowls, or on a single tray. Do this for yourself, even if there’s no one else around. Pause in a moment of gratitude that you have enough to eat, and then enjoy the rewards of your morning’s effort: dig in (chopsticks optional).

A Note on Condiments:

If the condiments listed here don’t entice you, invent your own—salty or sweet—to suit your taste. Some ideas include: soy sauce, cooked greens, shiitake mushrooms, umeboshi plums, kimchee for salt and spice; for a touch of sweet, try maple syrup, honey, cinnamon, dried fruit, chopped nuts, toasted wheat germ, toasted coconut.

I RATHER SUSPECTED that when my son chose “mac and cheese” for our second culinary project, he was envisioning the kind that comes out of a box, a kit with powdered cheese. It’s true, I confess, that we often have a box of Annie’s brand on hand in the cupboard for those days when cooking from scratch just isn’t possible (which happens more than I’d like). It’s all natural, which is good, and there are whole wheat versions, which my son will happily eat. Annie’s is a great nutritional improvement over my teenage Kraft mac and cheese habit (I can’t say how many times my roommate and I cooked that in our hotpot, wolfing it down without remorse, marveling at the fluorescent orange color of the “cheese stuff”). But for this quality time in the kitchen with my son, I had higher aspirations.

I believe that every family should have a good, basic macaroni and cheese recipe in their repertoire; a base of pure comfort. A dish that’s great the way it is (and sometimes only plain will do), but that also withstands the occasional effort to gussy up a classic with other, more sophisticated ingredients. This version of mac and cheese hits the mark. It’s a slightly modified version of a recipe from David Waltuck’s Staff Meals from Chanterelle cookbook, a really successful application of four-star talent to the home kitchen. I decided, after conferring with my son, to eliminate some ingredients. I also modified the cheese, downgrading the sharpness of the cheddar to suit his taste, which is typical for his age—that is to say, milder is better. Finally, my own compromise for health: replacing a significant quantity of cream with milk. (For this last adaptation, the recipe doesn’t suffer one bit, but my figure and my cholesterol count thank me. It is somewhat humbling to lean toward middle age and cook for a growing boy who can eat anything at all and remain a slender, compact mass of lean muscle.)

Cooking this dish was fun, though I could tell that my son was not quite as into the process as he was with our prior recipe, the bolognese sauce. I think this had something to do with timing: we were trying to get the mac and cheese into the oven so that he could use the baking time to go outside with my husband and hit tennis balls with a racket. It’s hard to compete with that. My son kept asking if he could leave the kitchen to give a status update to his father: “We’ve grated the cheese . . .” (actually, he really got into that part of the prep work), “I’m rinsing the pasta . . .” (he discovered how to turn on the spray function of the kitchen faucet), and “It’s in the oven . . . let’s go!” How could I blame him? Plus, he was sweet about his desire to finish quickly.

The verdict once the guys came home, washed up, and sat down to lunch? Mixed review. My husband and I loved the recipe. My son liked the flavor, but said he thought the dish was “a little too hot, and too hard.” Hot was just a matter of letting it cool on the plate long enough, so no problem there. Hard referred to the top crust of the dish, which perhaps could have come out of the oven five minutes earlier . . . or else in the future I will just scoop down below when I serve my son—my husband and I can battle it out for the “hard” part that, to us, is one of the best features.
 

Mac and Cheese After Waltuck

(modified slightly from David Waltuck’s Staff Meals from Chanterelle)

Ingredients:

1/4 cup gros sel (coarse salt)
1 pound ridged pasta shells or other medium-sized, ridged shape
2 cups heavy cream
1 cup milk
2.5 cups grated yellow cheddar (mild, medium, or sharp)
1 teaspoon Dijon mustard
1 dash Worcestershire sauce
1 dash hot sauce
Freshly ground black pepper
1/3 cup grated Parmesan cheese
1/3 cup fine whole wheat bread crumbs

Method:

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees F.
Set a large pot of water with the salt to boil on high heat.

While waiting for the water to boil, grate the cheese and set aside. Measure out the cream and milk, mixing them together in a small, heavy-bottomed saucepan.

When the water for the pasta is rapidly boiling, add shells and cook until barely al dente, about 7 minutes. (Cooking time will depend on the size and shape of the pasta you are using; the pasta should not be hard to the touch, but still very firm to the bite, more so than for regular al dente, as it will continue to cook in the oven once the dish is assembled.) Stir occasionally to prevent sticking. Pour into a colander when done, and run cold water over the pasta until completely chilled. Drain. Once thoroughly drained, put pasta in a baking dish. Use a shallow dish if you like more of the surface to be crisp; otherwise, use a deeper dish.

Bring the cream and milk to a boil over medium-high heat. Reduce to low heat and stir in the grated cheese, mustard, Worcestershire and hot sauces, and pepper to taste. Stir over low heat until the cheese is completely melted.

Pour cheese sauce over the pasta in the baking dish and stir to coat completely. Sprinkle the parmesan, then the bread crumbs, over the top of the dish.

Bake until the cheese bubbles and the top forms a golden crust, 40 minutes or less. (We cooked ours for 40 minutes, and I thought it was great; given my son’s verdict of “too hard,” though, I’ll probably try it at 30-35 minutes next time.)
 

A Note About “Hardness”:

Another thing to consider is that this time, instead of filling one casserole, I split the batch in two so that we could bake some and have some in the freezer for later; it’s possible that the portion I baked had a less-than-ideal quantity of cheese sauce covering the pasta. Also, the original recipe called for smaller, elbow-shaped pasta, rather than the shells. Each of these factors may have contributed to the crunch of the uppermost layer of pasta.