Whenever Lori asks me, “What do you want to cook next?” my mind immediately goes blank.
Completely blank.
I stare into the refrigerator like a writer staring at an empty page, hoping the ingredients will somehow arrange themselves into a meal. Occasionally, I close the refrigerator door and open it again, just in case something interesting has happened in the last 30 seconds.
It hasn’t.
Let’s be honest: if Lori were counting on me to prepare our regular meals, we’d probably be on a first-name basis with every restaurant delivery driver in town. Learning to cook is a wonderful luxury for me, mostly because Lori graciously handles keeping us both fed.
At this rate, I’ll have a cookbook ready sometime around 2056.
I’ve discovered something about myself: I can’t just walk into the kitchen and decide to cook. I need inspiration. A spark. Something that gets my creative juices flowing and prompts me to announce, with considerably more confidence than my cooking experience warrants, “Let’s make...”
On Saturday, that spark came from an unlikely source: Leonardo da Vinci.
I was thinking about creative minds and revisiting ideas from Michael Gelb’s book, How to Think Like Leonardo da Vinci. Gelb notes that minestrone soup was among Leonardo’s favorite everyday dishes and uses the process of making it as an exercise to awaken the senses.
Now, I’m not suggesting that making minestrone will turn me into the next Renaissance genius. But if there’s even a remote chance that a bowl of soup could boost my creativity, I’m willing to grab a knife and cutting board and take one for the team.
Voila! I had my next dish.
As I stepped into the kitchen and started putting Gelb’s advice into practice, something interesting happened. The preparation became more than just chopping vegetables and throwing them into a pot. It became a sensory playground.
I slowed down and actually paid attention.
I felt the firm, smooth skin of the tomatoes. I listened to the crisp, satisfying snap as I broke fresh green beans. As I chopped the potatoes, I noticed the contrasting colors, shapes, and textures on the cutting board. Who knew green beans could be so entertaining? Apparently, I’ve been missing out.
Once everything went into the pot and began simmering, the aromas started to build. Garlic, herbs, pancetta, onions, and tomatoes mingled into something wonderfully earthy and inviting.
And suddenly, I wasn’t just making soup. I was experiencing the process.
Of course, every great culinary adventure has its challenges. Mine arrived in the form of an entire hour of waiting while the soup simmered.
An hour.
That’s a long time when you’re not entirely sure what you’re doing.
“Can’t we turn up the heat?”
“Read the recipe,” Lori would say.
But even the waiting became part of the experience. I could step back, breathe in the rich, savory aromas drifting through the house, stir occasionally, and appreciate how all those individual elements were slowly becoming something greater together.
Which, when you think about it, is a pretty good metaphor for creativity.
Leonardo spent years studying, experimenting, observing, and creating. I spent an hour watching a pot of soup simmer. We all have to start somewhere.
And if a hearty bowl of minestrone was good enough for the man who painted the Mona Lisa, it was certainly good enough for a Sunday afternoon in our kitchen.
The good news? Dinner was a success. Nobody starved, nothing caught fire, and I didn’t accidentally invent a new form of charcoal. I’m calling that a win.
But there’s a bigger lesson here, one that extends well beyond the kitchen.
Think about the times you’ve faced a daunting project, a massive research paper, a blank canvas, or even a problem that refuses to cooperate. We often convince ourselves that inspiration should arrive on command. We sit down, stare at the blank page, and expect brilliance to show up like a scheduled delivery.
Unfortunately, inspiration doesn’t work that way. There’s no tracking number.
Sometimes, you have to remain curious and open to the world around you. A book you read years ago, a conversation with a friend, an unexpected observation, or even a passing reference to Leonardo da Vinci and his favorite soup can provide exactly the spark you need.
And once that spark arrives, don’t rush through the process. Slow down. Pay attention. Engage your senses. Enjoy the little discoveries along the way.
Because creativity isn’t always about having a brilliant idea. Sometimes, it’s about noticing something ordinary in a completely different way. You don’t have to be a Renaissance genius to find inspiration. You don’t even have to be a particularly accomplished cook.
Just stay curious, keep your eyes open, and be willing to stir the pot when the idea finally hits you.
I’m Patrick Ball. Stay curious, ask better questions. See you next time.
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