Each day, human beings strive for efficiency. A more realistic definition of efficiency could be “the balance of not having to work too hard and still getting the job done.” We perform impressive balancing acts to bring in the groceries in the least amount of “trips.” We choose to write with one hand or the other instead of endlessly perfecting the dexterity of both. Our speech is inconsistent and falters when we feel lazy and we pronounce words in the easiest way. For example, “I’m going to go” versus “Mm gonna go.” When did we learn to do these things? The over-simplified answer is “when we were young.” As children, each one of us created these efficiency-driven processes for our everyday life. In essence, we either put our socks on “sock-sock-shoe-shoe” or “sock-shoe-sock-shoe” according to a habit created early in life to make our daily activities run a little smoother.
On Monday, September 28, I heard of the news that my grandmother, Katie Jasper, was in the hospital after falling and hitting her head in the bathroom and was not expected to live past the end of the week. Immediately, I decided I wanted to make the 8 hour drive to see her before her time came.
However, strictly adhering to the American protocol of overeating in times of sadness, I decided to make “alfajores,” a shortbread cookie filled with dulce de leche (a caramel-flavored marmalade) that I fell in love with during my time abroad in Buenos Aires , Argentina
Anyone who knows me personally knows that I am not an infamous chef, nor in any way an organized one. Usually my subconscious procedure for measuring 1 cup of flour would be as follows: awkwardly tip the flour bag towards the mouth of the measuring cup and let the four flow until it creates an uneven mound of flour at the top of the cup. That uneven mound of flour is then “eyeballed” to be more or less sure that there is neither too much nor too little flour.
But this day, my process of measuring flour unexpectedly shifted. This time, instead of haphazardly tipping the flour, I carefully positioned the measuring cup in the sink and began to pour over the sink (so if I were to spill any, it would go down the drain). When I had created an uneven mound at the top of the measuring cup, I stopped pouring, turned around, opened a drawer, and took out a knife. I attempted to level off the flour. Given that I was not used to doing this (because it was not in my normal procedure), I accidentally pushed the front of the knife into the flour, knocking the measuring cup over, and spilling a little bit. I patiently tilted the flour bag and poured in some more flour. Finally, I proceeded to level off that awkwardly shaped mound of flour to be sure that there was exactly 1 cup of flour.
To most, this would go unnoticed, but given my typically over-the-top-disorganized cooking style, I found myself befuddled, mouth gaping and everything. What had just happened? After literally pausing for a moment in my kitchen, shocked by my newfound patience and attention to detail, the explanation came to me. Grandma Jasper was a stickler for measuring correctly when cooking. I have vivid memories of her hands craftily wielding the knife across the top of the measuring cup to be absolutely sure that our cookies would turn out perfectly. These memories are not due to my astute observation as a bright young child, but rather with my height. As an 8 year old, my line of sight intersected directly with my grandmother’s hands. We always made cookies and she would let me pour, and then she would do the finishing touch; or in my mind, “the hard part.”
So what does my apparent glitch in human behavior mean? The simplest and most truthful answer is that I don’t know. But clearly, my subconscious was working in my favor, delicately balancing the need for efficiency and the need for quiet pause at that moment in my life.
