My Cutting Board Has a Rhythm Now

I used to think of cooking as a task—something that stood between me and the next episode of a show. But somewhere between chopping herbs and lining up slices of beet like little edible tiles, I noticed I was... composing. Not just making dinner. Arranging it. Listening to it.

My cutting board became a kind of stage. I’d group garlic like an audience, sweep the parsley in like a dancer. The rhythm of prep—the slice, the scrape, the soft thud of a knife—started to feel like music. And it shifted the whole way I approached meals.

Now I don’t always cook to *eat fast*. I cook to *see*. I choose ingredients the way I used to choose paint swatches—by color, texture, mood. A warm yellow squash on a gray plate. A sprig of dill just because it looks like it’s whispering something.

It’s not always healthy in the kale-and-spirulina sense. But it’s *nourishing* in the way that matters: slow, sensory, alive. I still love takeout. But I also love the moment I stand back from a salad and say, “Well, that’s kind of beautiful.”