An email message from a friend arrived today, asking me if I had made a bunch of delectables in the kitchen in preparation for Christmas. The answer: No, not a one! I just haven’t been in the mood.
I’m starting to wonder if there’s something wrong with me, but perhaps cooking is meant to be a seasonal thing for me, like gardening—except, if cooking were seasonal, this would be the season, wouldn’t it?
I know what is wrong: my cooking follows my reading. In fact so much of my life is directed by my reading—and lately, on my nighstand, no cookbooks. Just a hodpodge of philosophy, religion, and poetry; Kafka and C.S. Lewis and Rilke. My family can’t eat poetry. They’ll be eating Stouffer’s soon if I don’t snap out of it.
Let’s hope someone gets me a good cookbook for Christmas. . .although if I could just find the time to settle down for an evening with one that I already have, that might help. Alternatively, I could start paying more attention to some of these lovely food blogs that send a few hits my way, like chocolate and zucchini.
Sometimes I shut so much out of my life, in an effort not to be distracted—though if I let the pendulum swing too far in that direction, out too goes the inspiration.
Will I ever get the balance right?
4:59:41 PM 
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