I don't ever feel like writing anymore, save the grocery lists that are composed according the the tastes that I wake up craving. There is ample inspiration fueling the homemaker in me but I can't earn a grade in a creative writing independent study based on the texture of tonight's ginger chicken with baked potatoes and fried green tomato towers (with feta and pesto sandwiched between slices, all stacked amid a mote of marinara sauce). And so it has recently occurred to me that maybe what I want to write about is food, or maybe it has occurred to me that what I want to do is make [food] and write...sometimes.
Every now and then I tell someone that I would love to open a bakery, only half believing the words myself. Yesterday morning the sun nudged us awake and hung over and head-cold-y I dreamed of bright-flavored berry muffins with lemoniness of an unknown origin. And as the day went on and I read of chocolatiers and couldn't get that Cake Love citrus bunt cake recipe out of my head for yet another consecutive day running, I didn't need to speak them. A vision appeared out of the dusty cyclone that is my future plan at the moment--turquoise walls and sunny yellow accents, muffins and homemade artisan loaves clustered on shelves and in pastry cases, vintage plates and tea pots and old tables salvaged from the roughs of flea markets. It makes a lot more sense to me than trying to write this paper right now, and it's all that I can do to stay planted in this kitchen chair as the peaches call to me from their crate, rotting by the second, desperate to be saved by the miracle of muffins. But still, I have to compose some pages on how I am different from a time before, or how a time changed me.
Who wouldn't have something to say to that prompt? I've lived 25 years and when I ponder the right tale, the right season of growth, I remain empty and flat. This writers block is the season at hand and if I knew how to send it elsewhere, I absolutely would.