Hello, long lost reader. I looked at my last post and realized that it has been almost a full month since I've written here. I could blame the usual suspects—too much work, too little sleep, a muse like a fair-weather friend who only comes around when it suits her needs. But the truth is, I've been putting my energy into other projects—into starting a business and writing a book. And in the beginning stages of these two very personal endeavors, I haven't been as inclined to check in and share what's going on. It feels so new and so messy that I want to hibernate, to work from a cave (one with central heating and good lighting, please) or seclude myself in a cabin somewhere in the woods of New Hampshire à la J.D. Salinger until it all works out. However, as those two options are not available to me momentarily, I've just been keeping to myself, carving out as much time and space for planning and writing as possible.
"When I write, I feel like an armless, legless man with a crayon in his mouth."
That's Kurt Vonnegut on his writing process. I get it. Right now, in the uncertain beginning of things, I feel like a weather reporter who has been plopped into the middle of a storm. I should be able to tell you more about where this is all heading, but honestly, that Doppler radar or whatever they use these days isn't really very accurate. Also, I'm having trouble concentrating with 30-mile-per-hour winds and hail pellets pummeling the side of my face. Even writing the words, "I'm writing a book," makes me feel audacious and unqualified. Who am I to put down more than an essay's worth of my innermost thoughts onto paper... and expect people to read it?! How utterly shameless! This, in case you're wondering, is the voice of my inner critic. She's sassy and sounds like Gloria Swanson in Sunset Boulevard. We're in touch often these days.
But please don't worry, reader. I'll get through it and, fingers crossed, become a writing machine sometime in the near future. Plus, there's the procrastination, which is too delicious, like skipping class to take a nap. (Oh what? No, I've never done that...) In the last two weeks, I've made Ottolenghi's Urad Dal with Coconut and Coriander, two batches of tomato sauce from scratch, butternut squash with za'atar and tahini, and enough egg-in-a-baskets to feed a village. I'm proud of the bounty, although it's really my husband who has this cooking-as-procrastination thing down to a science. He's been making bread. From scratch. As in, he cultures the yeast for the dough himself. I'm in awe. I married this man, in part, for his ambition. And he continues to deliver.
So that's it, reader. I wanted to check in and say "hi" to you in this space, even though I have nothing to report but messiness, deep insecurity, and compulsive egg-in-basket making. If you know me personally, I'm sorry that I now live in a hole and haven't called or texted you back, especially if all you sent was one of those yes-or-no-question texts that takes two seconds to answer. (If that was you, for the sake of convenience, let's just say the answer is "yes.") (Unless you'd like my help with your upcoming move... in which case, I'll get back to you.) I hope you all have an excellent weekend. I'm off to make my inner critic a strong cocktail.