I have a new goal. I want to start writing again. To write x words a day about food. Perhaps it’s a bit of an over-stretch, but I’ll give it a try. I stopped writing in my blog for a while, because it really didn’t feel right. The blogsphere is a place that I don’t fully feel belong to. Everybody is too happy and cheerful, and “look how organic and free of anything that tastes good it is!”. Life isn’t cheerful. It’s sometimes is, but not everyday, not really. And I’m not buying that you’re just oh so very happy to be cooking for your 5 kids every night. Like, seriously? kids are messy. There are cute moments, definitely, but a lot of it is just plain hard. We all know it. There’s no need to hide behind sunny pictures you stayed until 2am editing. It’s ok.
So I give up. They always tell you to be yourself, and this is me. Not super happy. Sometimes a bit sad. But I love food, and I used to like writing. I think I could like it again.
There was a period, not too long ago, in which I could not tolerate books. Their words were annoying, and predictable, and felt like scrolling through somebody’s finely engineered Instagram feed – unnatural. So I left them one after another, unable to finish more than a couple of chapters.
And then I found a book (I don’t remember how ), and everything changes. The words made sense, they flowed in and out of each other, organizing neat and tidy blocks in my head. The talked about melted shiny butter, and eating atop the kitchen sink with your hands (in underwear). They included recipes, and I wanted to make them. I WANTED to feel what the author was feeling, standing with them, looking outside the window.
So that’s what I’m going to try and do. I’ll write shirt essays, about food and memories. I will include a recipe at the end. I’ll try to inspire, make people feel. Maybe somebody will actually make a dish, and we will stand together, eating in our underwear.