One of the greatest pleasures of Friday evenings is not the prospect of going out to a bar and drinking with friends. Even on a fog ridden night as tonight. It is cooking at home. I begin to think of it early on….Say Thursday evening. Did I want a Shepard’s pie? A mushroom and leek quiche? Perhaps a good puttanesca sauce with warm bread and wine? And then comes the recipe hunting. I browse and make my choices. I read methods online, differing methods but same ingredients. I edit, i save. I make my list. I think about my pantry and the spices I my already have in my cabinet. Then after work comes the shopping the weighing and smelling of vegetables the long consideration of the shopping list the imagined act of the succession of ingredients. how it will all mend together. There is a pure joy in this. Because it resurrects something that is lost and overlooked. And that is the act of process. Process can be and most often is thought of as tedious. But in some sense it is a discipline a meditation, a service. When we prep and set up the ways in which we will execute, this is, in itself a great if somewhat tedious pleasure. We always like to think of pleasure as immediate. But if we can think of process as a story or a narrative then all elements are necessary. There is a great joy in even the repetitive moment. we know it is all cumulative. We eat the fruits of our past imaginings. Process is all present. That is it’s great reward.