On fresh corn, farmer’s markets & losing control

I have a little secret for you. I hate feeling out of control.

But did you hear that a few months ago I launched my freelance writing career? And guess who has very little control over things like workload and what clients decide to work with you and when that work comes?

That’s right! Freelance writers!

When I worked as an editorial manager, I would always tell my team, “control the controllable.” So a few weeks ago, I decided that one thing I could control, when I’m not politely pestering potential clients, was how I’m keeping my creative spirit alive. About a year ago I was introduced to the idea of artist dates, solo outings that “spark whimsy.” So this week, I decided to venture out east to a farm stand. Farmer’s markets are one of my favorite things. I love wandering the aisles, carefully choosing perfectly ripe tomatoes and freshly baked bread.

On the drive out I took in the wide open plains of eastern Colorado Springs, the bright blue sky meeting the dusty fields on the horizon. I parked in a large gravel lot, grabbed a basket and browsed for whimsy.

I grabbed handfuls of tiny red tomatoes labeled “flavor bombs.” I put six ears of corn in my basket, already shucked because I’m lazy. I picked up a bouquet of basil, tied with a rough piece of twine. A bag of handmade pasta flavored with sun-dried tomatoes and garlic. I placed two waxy zucchini in last, with plans of putting them in a loaf of zucchini bread, robbing them of nutrition but gifting them chocolate chips.

As I drove home, the smell of the basil filled the car. And I decided that I would make a meal with my bounty. And — this is crucial — I wasn’t going to use a recipe.

You must know, I am a recipe gal. I love to bake, and baking is precise. I have not one, but two baking scales. Two sets of measuring cups. Three sets of measuring spoons. More liquid measuring cups than I can even count. So this idea of cooking without a recipe was pure WHIMSY!

But I felt this deep longing to lay down control. In every area of my life I felt like I was wrestling for control, meaning, understanding, answers. Why not let dinner be free of the wrestle.

Tonight was the group loss of control dinner. I marinated the chicken in tangy balsamic and dijon, sweet honey and brown sugar. I blended handfuls of basil with fresh lemon juice and olive oil — the good kind in the metal container. I cut the corn off of the cob and sautéed it with shallots, garlic and bacon. I boiled the pasta, saving some of the starchy water for the end.

I tasted and sniffed and tossed in red pepper flakes. I stirred, splashed in a bit of pasta water, stirred again. The kosher salt I sprinkled on at the end stuck to my fingers, sticky with lemon juice and basil.

It was out of control. It was delicious.