I am terrible at waking up in the morning. I always have been.
This is not to say that I’m a grunting, wild-haired, coffee-mug-chucking neanderthal before noon. On the contrary, I’m generally quiet and mild-mannered, although admittedly more high-functioning once I’ve had a mug of half-caff. I don’t hate mornings. I actually kind of like them, especially when I get up to walk Sam and the streets are still relatively quiet and uninhabited. What I hate is untangling myself from my pillows and comforters, shedding my cozy pajamas and putting on something work-appropriate and infinitely less comfortable than fuzzy socks and flannel pants. (Yes. I sleep in socks. I know that pretty much everyone thinks it’s weird to sleep in socks. You know what’s weirder than sleeping in socks? Voluntarily sleeping with cold feet. Game, set, match. I win.) And then I have to go to work, instead of playing with Sam, or reading on a beach, or running around outside on one of the final 80-degree days of the year.
It always bothers me when I post a recipe I found from some other chef/food blogger’s website (though clearly, not enough to refrain from doing so) because I feel so…un-innovative. I feel like really, all I’m doing is successfully duplicating something that’s already been done. I usually try to tweak things, or take a component from one recipe I’ve found and incorporate it into something else. Maybe I’m being too hard on myself, because really, I’m not trying to cash in on anyone else’s successes or claim them as my own. I maintain this website because it’s my own little way of dealing with writer’s block. It’s cathartic, in a way, to be able to come home after a frustrating day and chill out (or swelter, these days) in the kitchen, listen to some good music, take some mediocre pictures and put it all into words.
For years now, I’ve been dealing with seemingly insurmountable writer’s block…or rather, not dealing with it, unless you count staring at a blank notebook saying “well, that idea sucked” then rolling over and going to sleep as dealing with it. I’ve more or less been a writing machine since I decided to pursue a lit degree (and probable cardboard box dwelling) in 2005, but there is a colossal difference between writing for work/school and writing because youlove it and not doing it simply is not an option. I can churn out news and feature articles like it’s my job (because, well, it sort of is), but when it comes to writing for myself? It just doesn’t happen anymore. At least, not like it used to. I can’t necessarily lock myself in my room for days like I did when I was a teenager, emerging with some poem or short story or chapter of a yet-to-be-completed novel, but I can sit at my kitchen table and write about my adventures in the kitchen. That’s really what I’m here for.