Tuesday, August 28, 2012
It's been months since I've actually whipped up a meal. While I've cooked a dish here and there, the last time I prepared a meal for someone was the day before Thanksgiving.
Cutting lemon peel into matchsticks, dicing fresh red pepper for garnish, testing the heat of the sweet-spicy salsa ... I know I'm supposed to enjoy these things. I did them to prove to myself that it's all cool. I proved myself wrong.
Somewhere along the line I lost it. The joy of cooking — something that has been with me since I was a kid — has vanished. Instead of feeling jazzed about creating something with my own two hands, I found myself staring at those mitts, wondering where my enthusiasm had gone.
It doesn't really matter. I'll still cook; there are people who seem to appreciate it, and I'm happy for that fact. I'm also glad to know what has changed in me. The gulf between what used to be and what is still startles me, but the knowledge is useful as I make plans for the future.
Tonight: more writing. The dystopian fiction is frankly very good. I've never been a big fan of my writing, but this is different, and I have to get it done before my head explodes. I want to be remembered for something with meaning.