Whenever I plug in Julie & Julia it's a day of retrospection. Of how instead of having to clean the house, cook a meal I'd rather not eat, and listen to my mother whine, I'd rather be writing. And should be. A recent event has prompted yet another beginning I've titled The Phoenix and I have two directions I can go with it. One is the Oprah Winfrey way and I despise that way and the other caters to a lesser audience and will set my path in the right direction for me. But it's only a paragraph old yet, and so on I go.
Not that I'm adverse to cooking. I love to cook, and indeed on my newly formed Amazon wish lists I now have 11 cookbooks waiting for me to plunk down the green. I also have a recipe box I've been keeping for several decades that is too full to even slip one more clipped recipe in. I have a few cookbooks also, some I've actually cooked from, and a recipe folder on my hard drive brimming with good eats. I continually dream of the day Mother is comfortably ensconced in the nursing home and I can garden, cook, and write to my heart's content, because really, that's all I want to do.
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