...to be honest, by the end of a lot of days, the only creative thing I engage in is cooking our dinner. Stress reliever. And even though it is dark by 6pm, and I'm standing under florescent apartment lighting, I can think of summer time. Or some other distant and lovely time, when the tomatoes and basil might actually come from my yard. I love that Miss Lily sits on the counter to supervise and beg tomato pieces, and Zach comes in to tell me, "Mom, I still don't think I'm big enough to like spinach, but I'll try it again." I think it's funny that all the splatters and mess tend to land on my ever growing belly.
A few months ago Dave and I were reminiscing about the meals of our first year of marriage. All 3 things I knew how to cook involved some sort of creamed soup. But I was good at potatoes...baked, mashed, fried, Au gratin, twice-baked, scalloped, hash browns, wedges, potato soup, potato salad, potato pancakes. We ate hundreds of spuds due to the fact that a sweet older lady at Dave's workplace had a son who was a potato farmer. Pity potatoes for the college students. Boy I'd give anything to have a journal that chronicled those dinner days.