I’m buying chicken frames at Uwajimaya, my grocery store of choice in the International District. A fellow shopper at the butcher counter asks, “What do you do with those?”

“I use them for chicken stock,” I answer. She looks incredulous.

“Doesn’t that take a lot of time?” She pauses, briefly. “And effort.” I know her response isn’t a question, so I simply agree.

If I thought she was really interested, I would have described the process. How I roast chicken frames–after chopping them into pieces–with carrots, celery, and onion, until they are fragrant and caramelized. Everything then goes into a 10-quart stock pot with lots of peppercorns, plenty of parsley, and some juniper berries. The simmering takes at least 24 hours.

A couple aisles over, with the Szechuan peppercorns maddeningly out of reach, I am well aware of the time and effort that each and every little chore can take for me. Luckily, my inquisitive co-shopper sees my struggle. She darts forward with a helping hand, and I smile with relief. “A little heat for that stock,” I say by way of thanks and then roll toward check out.

Given everyday hassles, why do I tackle long, drawn-out cooking projects? I make a mental note of my latest efforts: tomato conserva, dulce de leche, apple butter…all day-long commitments. And worth it? Hard to say. Certainly tasty. Oddly gratifying. Given my particular way of negotiating the world, time and effort are givens, aren’t they? These are my thoughts as I push myself out of the store balancing a bag of groceries on my lap. I spot my would-be interlocutor across the parking lot, and she gives me a cheery wave. I unload, rise unsteadily to stand, fold my wheelchair and hoist it into the back of my station wagon before swinging myself on shaky legs to the driver’s seat. “How about that for time and effort?” I want to call out to her. Something catches my eye as I pull out. It’s my new-found friend giving me a double thumbs-up.

I like cooking because it’s an act of generosity. Here. Take. Eat. This will make you feel better. Put meat on your bones. It’s good for what ails you. I swear that Leslie fell a little bit more in love with me when I tackled and presented an amazing Saltimbocca early in our courtship. It’s a forgiving medium, too, an inexact science, a magical process, each ingredient melding into a whole that is much greater and much yummier than the sum of its parts. I’ve discovered, to my surprise, that I’m good with pastry. I perfected a series of tangy vinaigrettes. I can brag about some seriously fluffy pancakes. I think that I’m more patient and creative in the kitchen. A better self, maybe even my best.

My illness heightens simple joys for me, like the satisfaction of spending a cold winter’s day making chicken stock that fogs the windows and warms the soul. It has taken me a decade to create this close-to-the-bone life. I realize that I measure both time and effort much differently from most people. I’ve changed what counts for me. And I know enough now to celebrate temporary victories, like this bowl of broth before me, which I’ll soon cup in my hands and sip with pride and pleasure.