Mini Martha

It should come as no surprise to anyone who knows or reads me that food is a subject near and dear to my heart. It has however come as a bit of a shock to me that my mind has chosen to magnify my love of cooking and baking a thousandfold as my way of dealing with my current situation. At some point, somewhere, I heard a little ping! and made a beeline straight for my cookbooks.

Par example, instead of sitting down to plan a much-needed trip to !kea when I read about Weet's swedish meatballs, I suddenly wanted to make them in my own kitchen. That, and Sauerbraten. And maybe some Gefilte fish. Anything to broaden my horizons and distract me for a few minutes.

Because these four walls, they are closing in.

It's 15C here today. Insane. Do you want my jacket? Take it, I don't need it, for I am cloaked in failure!

It's getting to the point where I'm going to have to resort to OTC sleeping pills because if I have to waste the first two hours in bed every night going over my list of deficiencies, I honestly don't know what I'll do. What annoys me most is the length of the list and how quickly I was able to memorize it and whip through it like Rainwoman.

Sure, fine, it's the hormones talking, but the hormones don't make the list any less true. I seriously think I peaked the day I graduated second in my class from college in 1989. I want a cigarette, I want a Guinness, I want chocolate, I don't want to leave the house or get out of my jammies. I want to be That 1989 Girl. I don't know how to get back there. I want to erase a bunch of things. I want a do-over.

I want to make puff pastry from scratch.

See that there, that recurring theme? Melting, folding and kneading, melting, folding and kneading, melting, folding.....

Posted at 3:00 p.m.