Monday, July 25, 2011

No Recipe

I've been away longer than I expected.  Life has gone all sorts of wrong.  I'd like to tell you that I have been a paragon of strength and resilience during "these challenging times," but that wouldn't be true.  I tried to write that post, and learned I'm a lousy liar.  I think the only option left is to set my wounded pride aside, and write about what's real.  
I had big plans for this summer.  After several years on the high-tech roller-coaster I had a stable job.  The people were nice, and the pay was decent.  I began to believe that after all the years being patient, and paying my dues, it was my turn.  After 13+ years of apartment life, the husband and I started looking at houses.  We were beyond excited, and felt sure we'd have a house and be training our first puppy by September.  It was so close.

I'd like to tell you that when I lost my job in May, I found comfort and solace in cooking.  I'd spin a yarn about the days I spent standing over the stove, certain of better times ahead.  I'd tell you about how I spent my mornings searching for jobs, and the afternoons creating new and delicious recipes.  I'd tell you how this blog makes me happy when skies are gray, because that's what bloggers are supposed to say.  Right?

But I can't stand to be in my kitchen.  Every time I see that room I think of the kitchen in the house we lost.  A poorly fried egg brought me to tears a couple weeks ago.  I can't think of anything I want to cook, or anything I want to eat.  I pass through just long enough to heat frozen pizzas.  I will have to climb a mountain of Red Baron boxes to get back to who I was. 

I haven't been resilient.  I took my pathetic scraps of dreams, and wove them into a rope sturdy enough to batten down the lid of the box where I keep what was once "me" contained.  The body moves through daily life on auto-pilot.  It wanders the aisles of the grocery store, not having remembered driving there, or what it needed to buy.  I am here, but not really.  I do not feel strong.

I have escaped into books, the weight of each finished volume a barrier between me and all I don't want to face: the job search, unpredictable bosses, yet another shiny new opportunity I am cynically certain will result in little more than future disappointment.  I read another book, stack it on top of the box, and am walled in.

I don't want for anything in this place I've made for myself.  I don't dream of vacations, or pets, or children, or of a little backyard to sit and pass the time in the evening.  It's nice in here, it's quiet.  At some point I know I will have to break the bonds I've made and lift the lid.  There will be other jobs, other houses, other kitchens.  I will feel like myself again.  I will want to cook.

Just not yet.


  1. hang in there ms. bonzo b. kelly - there are greener pastures ahead. two months of laying low will surely result in a 'phoenix rising from the ashes' scenario. perhaps your recipes will include a dash of introspection and a smidgen of cynicism - both necessary ingredients for a truly meaningful dish. in fact, two months is just about the right amount of time needed to begin again...but this time with a new perspective and that much more experience. i always enjoy your posts - so whenever a new one does pop up, i'll be eager to read it and will be happy about the time (whenever it may be) that it pops up in my reader. chin up and keep those dreams in the waiting - they'll find time to flourish soon.

  2. Katy, I'm certain that is the kindest thing a "stranger" has ever said to me. Thank you. It means a lot.

  3. Kelly, Drink more wine! kidding of course, enjoy your Visits to the store, hang in there. Mike Wineguy@the Q

  4. I found this post really moving. Thank you for writing so eloquently about your feelings and sharing them - they have caused me to pause and reflect.

    1. Thank you, Stephen. I haven't checked this blog for a while, but saw a notification for your comment. Thank you for your kind words, they mean a great deal.

      I cried rereading this post. I don't think I fully realized at the time how depressed I was when I wrote it. I can see it now, and I want to go back and give that girl a hug.

      I need to consider picking this up again. If nothing else, I would be able to report happier times have arrived.

      Thanks again.