Some Thoughts on Cooking, Food and Healthy Headspace

I’ve been intrigued by the possibilities of connection between food and mental health for a number of years now. A few years ago, I went through a really tough time, and one of the things that acted as a life buoy for me was cooking. I had never been an especially engaged or talented cook, but through this time I slowly developed familiarity with ingredients and techniques, and came to rely on the soothing, calming process of kitchen creation so much that I now get sad and moody if I go more than a few days without cooking. 

I’ve spent some time musing over what exactly it is that works such magic on me, and I’m not 100% sure, but I do know that I’m not alone in seeking solace in food, and in particular, food creation. I have been delighted to discover some books in the last couple of years that have shared these ideas with me. The Happy Kitchen by Rachel Kelly is most explicit about this topic. It’s been written by a writer who has struggled with depression, and a nutritionist she enlisted to help her develop recipes that would help her to feel better. 

Like myself, Kelly hadn’t always been an enthusiastic cook, but now recognises the pastime’s importance in keeping her feeling and functioning at her best:

“Today, cooking is an important part of what keeps me sane. I am reassured by its rituals; weighing out the ingredients, chopping the vegetables, whisking, beating, folding,slicing, assembling…”

And I think she’s on to something there. It’s the zen like nature of a repetitive task that’s key, alongside a few other things: being mindful and thoughtful of the colours, textures, flavours and shapes of one’s ingredients, focusing on a task of creation; one that has a positive end result. In addition to this, The Happy Kitchen goes into a lot of detail about the science behind how certain ingredients may help to lift a person’s mood, aid their concentration, and assist them to improved sleep which ultimately contributes to feeling better. 

The first time I remember reading something that put words to the the vague and whorly thoughts I’d had about food and wellbeing was listening to my love read Charlotte Wood’s Love and Hunger to me in a beautifully cozy Blue Mountains B&B one cold and crisp winter evening. Wood writes thoughtfully and beautifully, and makes you feel warm and nourished merely by reading her words. She discusses the pleasure derived from cooking for, providing for, others, yet also the pleasure inherent in the act of cooking itself:

“…Some of the deepest satisfactions of cooking are not necessarily to do with sharing food with others, with the big dinner party or the impressive dish; it might be a single perfectly seared piece of salmon eaten on a weeknight in front of the television, or the pleasing consistency of a pea and mint soup eaten at your desk for lunch.” 

Over the years, I have become increasingly attached to my ever expanding collection of cookbooks, to the point where I now make sure that I leave at least one out of the boxes and in my hand luggage when moving house. If I don't do this, I feel weirdly untethered; I just need access to at least one of them! 

I found especial solace in another cookbook last year, My Kitchen Year by Ruth Reichl. It was like a kitchen diary of her year after she’d been made redundant; a procession of recipes, thoughts and stories as she began the journey of coming to terms with the loss of job, identity and the magazine she had run. It was an intimate window into how she used cooking and food to heal. I suppose all of my cookbooks give me a window into that safe and calm place called cooking, and that's why they feel so important. If I can't be cooking and creating in the kitchen then at least I can be dreaming, planning and running through the process in my mind, lining the neural pathways that will lead to cooking delicious food.