One of my biggest struggles is with loneliness. Lacking a traditional job or traditional responsibilities, I don’t have that automatic, built-in structure that moves much of society along day by day. Stereotypically, “creative” types rail against structure, but I am finding, after months of unemployment and a very independent study grad program, that I crave it. Which means that any structure I want in my life must come from me. I must create it. Looked at one way, it’s extremely freeing to have so much seeming control over how structured you want your life to be. And, if I wasn’t constantly worrying about having enough money to live, I might enjoy it more. On the other side, providing structure is exhausting. It means I have to be constantly vigilant about making sure I have enough to do in my days so that I don’t melt into a teary puddle because I haven’t truly interacted with another human for a week. It means to maintain active friendships, I have to schedule hang-out time because people with a lot more going on have a tendency to forget about time with friends, in lieu of work, relationships, kids, etc. It means I spend a lot of time worrying I am being pushy or needy or annoying.
This preamble is all to say: welcome to the blog post where I try to excuse how completely I’ve dropped the ball on writing food posts this year.
Remember when I said this year was going to be my big kitchen year? I was going to get organized, to write about food, to post pics about food, to tell food stories. It was, in a way, my distraction strategy for the current landscape of political turmoil and social inequity. I was going to make tons of jam and pickles, maybe get a good sourdough bread recipe under my belt, tackle the chaos of my spice drawer, and share it all with you. I swear I was.
As you can tell, I’ve barely written about food at all since that post. Suddenly, in the last few months, my cooking has slowed and simplified. I’ve traveled to Seattle twice, visited my parents, and spent some time living with my friend Kyla in her community house. All chances to cook in others’ kitchens. I’ve started the tentative build of a once-a-month cookbook potluck. I’ve invited friends to dinner and breakfast and I’ve been fed in my friends’ cozy homes. What was about food is now about gathering. Food is the excuse: to connect, to ask for and receive care, to invite in and care for another.
The last few months, I’ve collaborated on less-than-stellar soup; eaten frozen pierogis and pickle chips on a friend’s couch with her cat hungry-hovering at my elbow; made and botched two batches of ice cream while listening to old school Mannheim Steamroller with a friend with whom I’ve recently reconnected. It hasn’t been pretty or glamorous or picture worthy. But it has begun chipping away at the sadness in my soul, and it has given me another structural element to build my days upon.
Thank you, to my friends, for feeding me. In all the ways that count. And know my kitchen is always open, any time.