Physically, creatively, emotionally, you name it. I tried to be who I was not by placing myself square in the middle of someone else’s world — most notably, Beth Kirby. A story for another day perhaps. But what you need to know is that I was cooking for who I hoped to be in the future: chic and fun and financally stable, a cookbook author, a homeowner, a trend setter!
A person I never became. I don’t mean to be self-depricating but I am a person who fucking claws through life, okay? I was never going to become any of those things. I’m doing really well on a day when I feed myself, do basic hygiene and accomplish a small handful of menial tasks. Go out to dinner? See a show? Drive to a yoga class? Attend an event? Hunny, you’d have to shoot adderall up my asshole. (Please don’t, I am also not that person.)
The years I spent hustling toward a goal that was in complete opposition to my very nature were deeply unahppy. Although I still claw through life, I’m feeling very at peace lately! I spend most of my time working at the best restaruant in town, which, cringe! is what I call my house because the chef alawys makes exactly what I want. I’m unpopular, irrelevant, and disengaged. I love it. Let’s lean into that, shall we?
Let’s talk about the dinners I can afford, the ones I enjoy for their pure scrappiness, the freedom of cooking without the restraint of documenting photos or a recipe for the public. Let’s be private; let’s write a dinner journal like it’s 2011.