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<h5 style="padding-left: 360px;">Photo by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/rajuvaidyazuiq/">Vaidy Krishnan</a></h5>
A few days ago Jason made Chicken Masala for dinner. His recipe calls for 23 ingredients, all eventually worked together in six separate steps, from roasting and grinding whole spices to making two pastes, one with cashews and another with ginger.

It's one of those recipes that not only takes a lot of time and effort to prepare, it also <em>tastes</em> like it does (thank goodness—why else bother?). <strong>With each bite, you can detect the layers of complexity—the balance of sweet and spicy, the surprises in the initial taste and then the new surprises in the lingering flavor.</strong>

As we ate dinner, Jason wondered aloud why certain cultures end up prizing complexity and flavor so much more than others. You don't just <em>stumble</em> upon these combinations of spices and textures. You don't cook like that because it's easy, and it's what you have on hand. <strong>It's a freeing art form and a painstaking science rolled into one.</strong> You imagine, envision, experiment, tweak, and pour your soul into it. In India, and many other countries—such as Thailand and Morocco—this process is clearly valued and prized (and we benefit from their experimentation and recipes).
<h4>Celebrating curry and a life that isn't black and white</h4>
The next day I brought it up over lunch with some friends (at a very American bar, I might add). Someone pointed out the polytheistic nature of these cultures. <strong>"They're very comfortable with complexity—they don't expect things to be black and white."</strong>

I find this really fascinating, particularly when I think of the tendency of Americans to love a Bible that they believe has clear answers. (I know—I'm getting into dangerous territory and stereotyping, but work with me!) Americans also tend to love their meat, potatoes and vegetables, each clearly delineated on the plate, each bit with its own distinct flavor and texture. There's no question what you're putting in your mouth, and what you're tasting—some salt and some fine red meat (and don't get me wrong—I love some fine red meat!). You might take a bite of this, followed by a bite of that, but still, <strong>you're in control of where to draw the lines and when to do the mixing.</strong>

Eating curry makes you feel deliciously out of control. Just when you think you know what it is that you're tasting, something else sneaks in and confuses you. <strong>Curry is a celebration of complexity without chaos, which is the thing that many people fear most about complexity, I think. Curry demonstrates that you can be completely in control, within a form, and yet completely let go within that adventurous space.</strong>
<h4>My own Midwestern ying and yang</h4>
In the broad scope of things, I think I'm somewhat in between when it comes to embracing complexity. <strong>I believe in one God, but I don't like to define my God too narrowly</strong>, and I don't like to pretend the Bible is filled with clear answers.

I want one spouse/partner, and I want my relationship with him (Jason) to have clear boundaries. But as someone who has been divorced and now enjoys the daily complexities of a blended family, including ex-spouses and their new partners, <strong>I don't believe there's only one way to understand marriage and family</strong>.

I love the simplicity of living in a small town in the Midwest—with my house and garden, my kids and dog, my church and neighborhood school and favorite bars—but I don't want my life in the Midwest to be "normal" or typical or bland. <strong>I don't want my kids to grow up thinking things are black and white, easily parsed, categorized and understood.</strong>

Luckily, that can't possibly be the case, thanks to the community of friends we've gathered here.

On Saturday evening, after celebrating H's birthday at our house with the wonderful mix of people she considers her family, Jason and I went out to celebrate the birthday of our good friend, Marlah. Out of the 12 of us gathered around the table for her celebration, only four of us could be considered "white." The rest were African American, Native American, Mexican, Cuban, Afro-Carribean, or some combination. (As someone kindly pointed out that evening, with my olive complexion and dark hair, I'm not <em>that</em> white.)

On Sunday, we were invited to feast on a Chengdu hotpot meal at the home of some friends from church, who have spent a fair amount of time in that region of China. <strong>Hotpot represents a different kind of complexity than curry.</strong> Twenty or more bowls of individual foods—from shrimp and greens to many foods my kids have never seen before like ribbon tofu, rice cakes, lotus root and enoki mushrooms—crowd the table. Ying and yang pots of spicy and mild hotpot broth boil furiously on burners at the table's center.

With chopsticks, you pick various items of your choice from the separate bowls and drop them into the boiling liquid to cook. Sometimes you manage to pull out what you put in. Sometimes what you pull out is mixed up with things other people around the table dropped into the pot.

<strong>You feel like you have some control over what's happening, yet what you end up with is always a surprise. </strong>It's a joyous confusion of cooking, sharing, eating things together and separate, trying textures and flavors that are unfamiliar, yet all tied together by the complex flavors of the broth.

And isn't that a lot like life?