Today for the first time for months I cooked. I cooked a meal from scratch for myself and I ate it and enjoyed it, and I wasn’t sick afterwards. Admittedly I’ve spent all day in my PJ’s, and I haven’t brushed my hair, but even so it was a win.
I love cooking and baking and eating. I bake cupcakes, cookies, brownies and pies, and they are delicious. Always. Cooking and baking is what makes me, me. I am a baker. My dreams are filled with delicious desserts and fluffy frosting. I close my eyes and my brain conjures up images of rainbows, unicorns and candyfloss – and then figures out how to turn it all into cake. My clothes would be a tie dye pattern from food mixer splatters.
I would bake all the time. There was always a bit of flour on my shoe or a missed bit of cake batter on my sleeve. I’ve been known to make 120 cupcakes and platefuls of cookies and brownies over a couple of days. I’ve spent all day baking then all night dreaming of baking.
The last time I can remember baking something from scratch was September. My clothes have been batter free for nearly 8 months! I’m not me unless I’ve got bits of frosting in my hair.
But baking hurts, cooking hurts, making a sandwich hurts. I can’t stand over the hob stirring something for ages. I can’t knead dough, or whisk eggs, or lean over a piping bag icing a cupcake. Not for long anyway. I can no longer mimic bake off contestants and squat by the oven hoping the cake Gods are looking down at me favourably. Curiosity kills cupcakes. You can’t constantly open the oven checking them. Not that I ever did but I would watch them. I would watch as they started to puff up and create a dome. I would watch the magic of the oven turning my mixed raw ingredients into a perfect sweet treat.
I didn’t bake today, but I cooked. I chopped, sautéed and I stirred until it was perfect. Then I enjoyed every last bit of it. It hurt, and I’m still hurting from it hours later, but it’s great to be one step closer to feeling like me again.