Sometimes I wonder, at what point did I develop a passion for food? And how? And why does it make me happy?
If I really think about it, it’s been a procession of events that all started when I was young (and perhaps a little foolish). I wanted to be an artist when I grew up. When I was in high school, most of my classes were art classes… probably because that’s where I felt the most relevant. Academics and I were not great bedfellows, at least, until I reached college years. *that’s another story*
But as a young woman, I found it difficult to express myself creatively if presented with any other challenges, say like needing to support yourself or having a relationship of any kind. Being a young wife and mother changes your priorities… or at least it should. For me this is especially true. My focus on my family was the death of my art – at least for a while.
In the beginning, it started with pencils and evolved to paint. Later, it was yarn and eventually fabric. And much later, it was cooking. The common thread was the possibility of creating color and texture in my life, and the critical thread was the expression of creativity that unburdened me of my troubles. If I was having an especially bad day, I would hide somewhere in the house with my favorite vices… sometimes it was my crocheting bag, other times it was my sewing machine and a pile of fabric – but mostly, a bag of groceries and my favorite cookware were the keys to my soul.
My conclusion is, that my creativity is a work in progress and I think it makes me happy because it’s the only place where I don’t rely on others to make me feel relevant. The experience of creation, in and of, itself is enough to make me realize that I can find happiness anywhere my effort lies.
From top to bottom, Limoncello, Lemonbar Sundae, French Toast with fresh peach preserves & my notorious dirty eggs, Loaded Potato Chowder 🙂