A friend of mine named Sara is running a special on her book The 30 Day Writing Challenge. I have not had much time to cook for fun (or for this blog) at home, and the reasons are positive. I am receiving more responsibilities at work, which requires me to be there a little more, and I am seeing the launch of my small catering company gain momentum. Still, I would like to keep updating this blog, so I decided to take part in Sara’s challenge. I’ll be posting here if anyone wants to follow, or feels inspired to tackle the 30 Day Monster!
The Exercise: Stream of Consciousness.
The hap’s: Write in the stream of consciousness for 10 minutes without stopping.
Finished yoga today, and should have been focusing on how to maintain my balance, should have focused on every breath that came in and slowly went out through my nose, could only focus on how my knees don’t touch the floor when I cross them in half-lotus. Are our knees ever meant to lay flat on the ground? Is there a flexibility as a child I’m just not remembering, but still missing? Or do the crests of a human pelvic bone mean that we cannot flatten out. I remember as a kid this was called sitting “Indian-style”, and I always imagined that I could make a cobra dance with a little wooden flute. Made school a little less black and white. Then again, imagination makes everything a little less black and white. I try to use it every day, in fact I can’t help it. One moment I’m cutting garlic and shallots in the kitchen, and the next thing I know I’m wondering to myself: How can I put more color into my work? Use the plate like the canvas, and the food is the brush. I look at my line these days and I see more color; so many purples, reds, and greens. But couldn’t I have more? The deep red of beef or venison carpaccio. The tye-dye of watermelon radishes. The green-to-white of split asparagus stalks and bulbs. How can I lure people closer to eating something they have never experienced when all they want are romaine salads and fried crab claws?
There is a chill across my skin, the AC must have kicked on. The house is making settling sounds, but it’s been sitting on this hill for years. Sometimes the walls sigh, the glass ticks like a clock that wants to start again. I can hear breeze echoing down the chimney, through a hearth that has not seen a fire for some time. I wonder if I can get it going again in the winter, and cultivate a healthy reading habit by it. So many healthy habits to roll into myself, like folding flour into dough that’s too wet, too heavy, too unfeeling, with no spring. The stretching in the morning, the water on my face, the toothpaste soothing my gums and enamel, the conscious eating without succumbing to calorie counting so I don’t miss out on the finer things in life like real butter. It feels so good, but there are so many small things I miss from childhood that could breathe even more life back into me; buried in a book on the back porch of a bungalow on the Chesapeake Bay.