I recently returned from a trip to Oregon. This trip was a well-needed retreat for me— a chance to get away, spend quality time with friends, and ask deep, contemplative questions about what the future holds. It was also a time for me to let go of all the shoulds and what ifs in my life and practice just being present in each moment. I am learning to allow the future to unfold, which is quite different than my usual M.O.— trying to make everything happen.

After a lay-over in Portland, I flew in to the quaint little coastal town of Newport. The plan was to stay with friends on the coast for most of the week, with a short venture into the Oregon wine country at the end of the week. This trip came at a perfect time for me. My friends, we’ll call them Jana and Mary Jo (because those are their real names), whom I’ve known for over 15 years, offered the most perfect retreat for me. They live minutes (by foot) from the beach and gracefully opened their beautiful little home to me for the week.

Other than an overnight adventure in the wine country, we didn’t have the regular list of vacation to-dos that normally accompany travel. For a good part of the week, Mary Jo went about her regular routine as an acupuncturist— arguably the best in Oregon (maryjohiggins.com), and Jana, a graphic designer (www.studiobluewest.com), had a few standing commitments as well. I knew before the trip that I would have some alone time… and was looking forward to it. There’s something about being on the edge— the edge of where the land meets the ocean— that calls for contemplation. The ocean always does that for me, and this time, I was especially yearning for introspection. I knew there would be beach-walking, and beach-sitting, and maybe even beach-jogging— and each of these activities, I was certain, would produce some great, profound epiphanies for me. I was ready. I had asked the universe questions in advance so there would be no ambiguity about my personal growth and development needs. I had worn the right shoes. I was ready.

I did spend time on the beach. It was lovely. As with all my other Oregon beach experiences, there were few people— the perfect distraction-free setting. I walked. I sat. I contemplated. I gazed with an open heart at the waves in constant flux, rolling to the shore again and again and again. But there were no epiphanies, no answers to my important questions, and no ah-ha moments. I saw nothing I could even pretend was a sign— no pictures in the clouds or arrows in the sand. I even tried to read the washed-up seaweed like tea leaves and couldn’t muster up even the teeniest insight. It was just a beach. Don’t get me wrong, it was a beautiful beach, but the magical ebb and flow of the cool Pacific did not wash up any clues for me. Not one. Zip. Nada.

But then, there was the kitchen

Jana and Mary Jo are not just ordinary friends. They are the kind of friends, if you’re lucky, who come into your life one day and stay until the end of time. They are the kind of friends who know you, understand you, love you, and always offer a different perspective when you need it most. I wanted to do something special for them. I wanted to give them something that would show my love and gratitude. The best way I know how to do this is with food. So I offered to cook dinner— a small gesture to say “thanks for all that you do and all that you are”.

Jana and I did the shopping, with a stop at a fish market where we could choose from a variety of locally caught fish, fresh off the boat. Mary Jo offered to be my sous chef for the evening and so the fun began. In their tiny, one-and-a-half person kitchen, Mary Jo and I sipped Oregon Pinot Noir, laughed, bumped into each other on more than one occasion, and ended up with a beautifully, delicious dinner. Following a simple appetizer— mini toasts with brie and caramelized onions— the main dish was pan seared halibut with asparagus risotto. For dessert, I coached Mary Jo through the process of making one of my favorite chocolate desserts— a dark chocolate torte with home-made caramel, sea salt and fresh basil oil.

Sometime during our cooking adventure that evening, when Mary Jo was chopping onions, or stirring risotto, or making caramel, or… (are you getting the impression that Mary Jo did all the work?)— I began to feel the inklings of an epiphany coming on. It occurred to me that I had been asking big questions and searching for big answers. What I discovered in the kitchen with Mary Jo is that maybe it’s not the big answers that I was looking for. Maybe, just maybe, it’s all of the little questions and little discoveries that shape our lives and give us meaning.

Important lessons from the little zen kitchen in Oregon

I call it a zen kitchen, but in reality, I should call it a zen home. Jana and Mary Jo attend to every detail of their lives with mindfulness. I have always admired that about them. In the kitchen that night, I was gently reminded of a couple essential lessons. These lessons certainly apply to the art and craft of cooking, but if you look a bit deeper, you just might find these lessons resonate in other areas of your life as well. I did.

1. Less is more.

Jana and Mary Jo have, for as long as I’ve known them, been shining examples of this principle. They are not simple people, yet they live a beautifully simple life. Their kitchen is not extravagant, yet it is perfectly prepared to create nourishing meals. I’ve seen pantries bigger than their kitchen. They don’t have specialized appliances. Their drawers (the few that they have) are not filled with gadgets of all shapes and sizes that are designed to do one specific task. In fact, to my surprise, one of their three drawers was filled with corks that they save and recycle. I laughed out loud when I saw this. Really? Using limited, valuable drawer space to store corks? It goes without saying (but I’ll say it anyway), using their limited drawer space to store corks speaks volumes about what they consider to be valuable.

The bottom line is this: They have what they need. And, if they don’t have what they need, they make do with what they have. For them, having less is a way of life that brings them immense pleasure. I always appreciate the reminder that things don’t bring happiness. Oh, and by the way, cooking gadgets aren’t required to make delicious food.

2. Let go of expectations.

Our chocolate torte dessert is something I had made many times before this trip. But never like this. My earlier versions of this torte require a springform pan, and food processor, neither of which could be found anywhere in this kitchen. But rather than giving up on this special dessert, I decided to improvise. I chose to let go of the expectation of what this dessert should look like and just trusted that something delicious would emerge. And letting go of that expectation allowed us to create something wonderful— something that never would have happened in my kitchen back home. We created the most unforgettable, delicious chocolate torte.

Without a food processor, the nut crust was challenging. I blended the nuts in a blender, one small handful at a time, in hopes of making a crust that would hold together. After I started the process, I realized there wasn’t even a rubber spatula in the kitchen. So as I’m carefully poking the handle-end of a large spoon into the blender to remove the nuts, Mary Jo says “can we just chop the nuts by hand”? It was a beautiful question (and another great example of Mary Jo’s wonderfully simple approach to life), and yes, there’s no reason our nut crust couldn’t have been composed simply of chopped nuts. The crust may not have held together (nuts do require some processing to release oils that help them stick together), but what’s wrong with that? Would this dessert have failed if the nuts weren’t sticking together? Who says your nuts actually have to stick together? What would we have created if we had let go of that expectation?

At the time though, I was not ready to let go of that expectation so I stayed on course, blending several small batches until we had enough ground nuts for the crust. We ended up with a nut crust that had character, and for the most part, stuck together. With an occasional large chunk of nut defiantly protruding from the coarsely blended mixture, Mary Jo pressed our wholesome crust into the bottom of a pie dish and it was perfectly imperfect.

The torte I had always made before was elegant and sophisticated. The three components are layered in a springform pan that, when removed, reveals each succulent, perfectly-layered delicacy— luscious, amber caramel nestled in between an smooth nut crust at the bottom, and a layer of dark, inviting chocolate on top. The chocolate ganache of all my previous tortes was always perfectly smooth and shiny— designed to impress.

Our torte (I lovingly call it rustic) had a slightly (ok, very) different appearance. The nut crust undulated up and down the sides of the pie dish without ever quite reaching the top. The chocolate on top was spread with wide, sweeping strokes, giving it texture and character, with dozens of small topographic peaks and valleys. It was inviting, but not in the seductive way as its urban sibling. This torte felt comfortable and familiar, like old jeans with a hole in the rear that you just love to wear on the weekends. This torte was content just being, not pretending at all to be something it wasn’t. I appreciated this torte a great deal.

Oh, and did I mention it tasted absolutely fantastic.

When we let go of the expectation of how things are supposed to be, we are free to experience how things are. This is one of life’s greatest gifts.

Epiphanies from the coast

We don’t always get the answers we’re searching for, but sometimes we get just we need. My visit with good friends on the unkempt coast of Oregon offered up exactly what I needed most. Our time together reminded me that food tastes better when eaten with good friends and cooking is more fun when you worry less about the outcome and enjoy the process. More importantly, I was reminded that letting go of things and letting go of expectations makes space for all kinds of abundance.