With the best intentions I wished to write here more. It’s been more difficult than I imagined. So where the fuck have I been? I wanted this to be a very clinical, instructional site centered around real cooking. I slowly realize that those sites are a dime a dozen, and that it isn’t what I want. I hope to express the depths of my mental illness, hoping to be a voice for cooks who struggle. I hope to find some sort of therapy in expressing myself. When it comes to emotions, and trauma, the “shove it into a bottle and throw the bottle into a black hole” method of processing clearly isn’t working. Figured I’d throw my hat into the wellness, openness, mindfulness ring before I finally, mercifully collapse inward like a dying star.
I headed back to work after the downfall of my application. It was doomed from the start, but I needed a distraction from retiring from restaurant kitchens. There, the idea to start a food zine was born. How to reach more people, easy? The app store. No not easy. Not successful. Another stone in the wall of shame.
Even the titans of the food publishing world are seeing plummeting profits, and they’re selling their content for next to nothing. I’d rather give it away for free and reach more people than hoard recipes. That sense of entitlement is something that is not exactly in line with my personality. I’m not sure where it came from. Upon a long reflection, I realize, again, it was a distraction. Running from past trauma, the walls were coming down around me. Sitting amongst the rubble, with another broken leg, I figured it was time to start writing some things down. Working them out. Come here for real food, not Cajun scrimps and gluten free banana pops. No cauliflower taco shells, or over night oats. If it’s hip, this isn’t the place.