Disclaimer: Don't own House.
Warning: Mild spoilers for "Wilson's Heart"
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It's about the sounds and the smells, the heat and the textures, but not really about the taste. Remy knows that someday, maybe soon, she won't be able to chew and swallow, that she'll have to be fed intravenously, but she can handle that. She'll miss cheeseburgers, probably, and chocolate, but her love of food was never about the way that it tasted. By the time she can't eat properly, her ability to cook food will be long gone, and that will be the thing she misses.
It's been three days since she knew for sure, and she's starting to regret it. Nothing's changed - she does all the same things that she ever did; she still goes to work, deals with patients who are healthier than she is, drives home, makes herself dinner - except that everything has changed. She can no longer walk across the street, get into her car, or even turn on the stove or the oven without thinking about it. Every mundane danger that parents make their children fear in the name of protecting them seems so pointless now when there's another danger waiting for her, one that's more real. More personal.
It accompanies her everywhere, distracting her. Even now, she can't appreciate the smell of garlic, the smooth texture of the cutting board under her fingers, the rhythmic up and down motion of the knife in her hand, chopping - they seem distant, like something out of a memory, like something she saw on tv.
She learned to cook from tv, or at least, that's where it started; she had to teach herself a fair amount. She was too young to learn how to cook from her mother, and her father never could master anything much more complicated than a grilled cheese sandwich. That was never a problem for her - his grilled cheese sandwiches were amazing - but when she watched the cooking shows as a child it seemed like magic. Her dad liked to watch them with her, and he'd always get excited about whatever fancy recipe the chefs were doing. He'd buy the ingredients and follow the instructions to the letter - and she'd end up eating grilled cheese an hour later while he scrubbed pots and laughed and his own failure.
She could never understand his patience with himself. She knew that after watching the tv chefs do it right time and time again, she wanted to do the same - wanted to pull that beautiful casserole out of the oven, to stir simmering sauces, to be surrounded by the aroma and the heat and the simple act of creation. When she was able to do it for herself, it lost the mystique, but by then she'd decided that magic was overrated. There was no meaning to something that came easily, that was just given to you; only worthless things were free. Cooking was a work of art; it was beautiful because of all the effort and knowledge she put into it.
There's been little time for art since she started working for House, but maybe that's just as well; she's starting to think she shouldn't have learned how to cook so well, or enjoyed it so much, because it will be just one more thing to miss. She misses it already, because she can no longer enjoy it. It has ceased to be a diversion and has become a painful reminder of everything she stands to lose. But it's also a test - if she can still do this, than she's fine. She still has time.
She doesn't want any more tests, doesn't need any more reminders. She stares out the window for a minute, and then goes back to chopping vegetables, breathing in deeply and trying to focus on the smell of the garlic.