The celebrations of year end gave way to the mundane calendar page of mid-January and then February. Days playing follow the leader and marching straight ahead and off the page or out of the book.
This year my eating with jubilation didn’t cease on January 1. Nor did a resolution cross my lips that started with a “d”. My October of eating only unprocessed foods spurred my desire to return to the kitchen. Spending holidays with loved ones instead of alone gave reason for feasting.
Canning tomatoes and cooking new and local and heritage vegetables has been an adventure. Saturday Farmer’s Market trips with girlfriends enlivens meal planning and beats a Saturday morning grocery store trip hands down. On a particularly tough day I was challenged to find an edge and grab it–even if it was just a strange vegetable of an edge. So I did. Savoy and I made friends. Then Irois. And nearly black red leaf lettuce, rainbow chard. Purple dragon carrots. Purple potatoes. Heirloom tomatoes striped with eggplant hues.
I started reading cooking blogs like I would the Arts & Entertainment section of The New York Times.
I made salted caramel and subsequently, salted caramel coffee creamer.
And then there was the BLT.
Nitrate & nitrite free bacon.
Salted organic butter to toast a locally made whole wheat tortilla topped with goat cheese.
A few juliennes of red bell pepper. Native irois. Not a chive, not a scallion, just delicious.
Pile on that deep as black red organic lettuce and drizzle a little golden balsamic vinaigrette on top.
Oh. Did I mention I made the vinaigrette with local roasted garlic olive oil, golden balsamic vinegar and a smudge of rosemary salt. Um-hmm.
All of this lovely adventure for my mouth stole any creativity from my writing. From my mixed media pieces. From photography.
One night I had to wake up to the truth.
I was cheating on my photography with bacon. And homemade cinnamon rolls. Roasted balsamic veggies. Cardamom lattes.
I have hidden myself in the kitchen and eaten until there was no room to digest words. I have stared at my plate; missing the light warming the table. I have chopped veggies instead of hiked mountains.
I had to tell my toughest critic that I couldn’t recall the last time my camera had seen daylight.
Although I said he was wrong, acted non-plussed by his pushing, I was angry.
Angry enough to drag 8 pounds of metal and glass out of a black bag, hoist a tripod up the stairs and out the door and focus on the plane of my own existence….where I am the photographer and the photographed.