This weekend was not particularly relaxing. (Although, not to look a gift horse in the mouth…when you haven’t had a single day off in weeks, 48 hours feels like a god-send.) On the other hand, I spent a lot of time in the kitchen, cooking up a storm and I could feel myself returning. I explained to someone recently that I feel most myself when I’m cooking, that I feel divorced from who I am when I have to spend weeks away from the kitchen.
So this weekend, I found myself in a dozen oatmeal chocolate chip cookies. A jar of quick dill pickles. A steaming pan of seafood paella. A crackly loaf of sea salt foccacia. Several ears of roasted corn with chili lime butter. A warm pan of blueberry white peach cobbler. I withered under the heat. I slept too little and when I did sleep, it was fitful and laden with strange and crazy dreams. I ran too many errands; I planned too ambitiously for the meager 48 hours of freedom. But a birthday was celebrated. Much food (too much food perhaps) was consumed. And I felt more like myself than I had in a good long while.