We all need to eat. Some of us eat to live and some of us live to eat. I fall into the latter category. Eating should be fun.
What adds to the fun is trying new foods. While upscale restaurants challenge the palate with unique flavor combinations, they come with a price. And, even the most esoterically affordable restaurants seldom venture from the tried and true.
As a result, most of the time I cook at home. Even if I follow a recipe, I have the option of adapting it to suit my tastes or whims. For example, traditional pesto doesn’t call for citrus. However, I believe orange and basil so splendidly together. Consequently, I add the zest of an orange when I make pesto.
Cooking should be equally fun and rewarding.
However, as the plantar fasciitis in my left foot becomes worse, the fun of cooking left the kitchen. Standing for more than five minutes becomes a study in discomfort. So, the twenty minutes required to make pesto in the mortar and pestle seems out of the question.
The alternative was jarred pesto. Pesto in a plastic tub, really. It’s not that bad, although it lacks the pop of homemade. So, I decided to bite the bullet, work through the pain and make my own pesto.
This leads to another obstacle that plantar fasciitis creates: navigating the grocery store.
I used to take my time and wander through the market; stopping to examine any new or unusual product. Now I have to shop as efficiently as possible to minimize the time on my feet.
Moreover, I have to remain mindful of how I react to the pain if I’m on my feet for too long. I was in line at the grocery store for about three minutes. This seemed an eternity due to the pain. I was unaware that I was grimacing.
Mid-scowl, the man in front of me turned around and looked at my T-shirt. (I was wearing a shirt from a midget wrestling show I attended years ago.) He looked up and his expression immediately shifted from amused curiosity to pure shock.
As I was leaving the store, the man was waiting (not for me) and saw me leaving the store. He asked, rather amiably, why I gave him a dirty look in line. I explained the look wasn’t directed at him. Then, I described plantar fasciitis and it affects me while I’m on my feet.
He said it was all good and we discussed the humor in the shirt. A potentially awkward situation ended affably.
Possible conflict averted, so I went home to make the pesto. Making pesto, like all cooking, involves two steps: Prep and Make. (The third, fourth and fifth steps are eating, cleanup and nap time but aren’t relevant here.) Due to the plantar fasciitis, I knew the Prep and Make times would double to rest my feet.
In addition, since I would be using the mortar and pestle, a particular system was involved. To effectively use the first food processor, smash the hardest ingredients first and the softest last. I took advantage of this process to get off my feet for a few minutes.
Using the mortar and pestle offered one distinct advantage. The cathartic rhythm of pounding and grinding made me forget about the pain. A familiar benefit was that the homemade pesto had the zing that the jarred sauce needed. Making the pesto wasn’t fun but it was rewarding.
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