I've discovered something

I haven't had much growth in the area of cooking for myself and husband. As I've written before, I struggle to be efficient in the kitchen and there is nothing quite so disappointing as expending a great deal of energy on a meal that comes out subpar. That being said, I haven't fully given up and recently discovered the wonderful world of baking! Here is why baking has worked for me where regular cooking has not:

1. Baking is all about precision. That means that generally speaking, recipes do not leave out any details. Therefore, no assumptions are necessary on my part and my rate of success is much higher.

2. Baking, if one is successful, results in incredibly delicious outcomes. As someone who loves to eat, this is crucial.

A few weeks ago I unearthed my grandmother's homemade bread recipe and made two loaves for a friend of mine who just had a baby. Last weekend I made cream scones. This weekend - orange and dark chocolate scones.  Of course this isn't particularly helpful with regard to the health of myself and my husband, but I figure I could probably do worse. 

In non-food related news, I thought today I might share a bit of my fiction writing here. A while back I was working through a book of writing exercises and produced this paragraph that I'm considering incorporating in my novel for NaNoWriMo.  What do you think?


Coming Down the Hill

Coming down the hill, a mist hung over the valley. Somehow, it seeped into the spaces between the trees but it did not bury them. It lay loosely over everything, like a wedding veil thoughtfully placed over a complicated up-do, careful not to disrupt the goings-on underneath. The mist stopped abruptly at the road and the morning sun shone over it, creating a sort of glow that mesmerized Jane as the car hurtled toward town. Jane took a mental photograph, attempting to preserve the memory all the while knowing that despite her efforts it would be wiped away in the space of an hour. 

Live in the moment? Jane thought bitterly, chewing on the inside of her cheek, gazing out the window. Jane’s daughter Sara hummed to herself some unrecognizable tune, too sad to bear the silence growing between them. Jane could not find the value of living in the moment anymore. As a younger woman, it had been her mantra. It was a gentle reminder not to dwell and to look for beauty in all circumstances. But now, without the past, every smile, every joke, every hand resting gently on her shoulder was devoid of context and, as a result, devoid of the richness that had given her life meaning. Live in the moment? Jane snorted contemptuously.

   “What are you thinking about mom?” Sara asked. Jane looked over at her daughter.

   “I can’t remember.”  The mist was like the dementia that rattled her mind. It lightly covered up her world, refusing to reveal the connections.          



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