Before this week, I never thought about how bombs are made. Now that I’ve heard too much about the pressure cooker bombs apparently used in the Boston Marathon attack, I can’t stop thinking about the perversity of using a cooking pot to inflict brutality and violence.
Food brings people together. It is integral to large holiday celebrations, family get-togethers, and intimate conversations. Even when tragedy strikes or there is a death in a family, food is not just sustenance, it is comfort. Is there a culture that doesn't have its equivalent of a host offering an overflowing platter or a small plate, urging guests to "eat, eat"?
For those of us who cook, the process is often as much of a joy as the end result. Stirring a pot of soup can be soothing and kneading dough can be cathartic. We chop away our cares, simmer our troubles into disappearing steam, and turn an awful day into a pleasing batch of muffins. When we are done, we feel better and eagerly await the smiles and satisfied sounds of others sipping, chewing, crunching, and munching.