I love that after a day when nothing is sure, and when I say 'nothing' I mean nothing, you can come home and absolutely know that if you add egg yolks to chocolate and sugar and milk, it will get thick. It's such a comfort.
There are times with your friends when you just have to put their whole mess out of your mind for a while.
People want to care about people. People look after each other, given the chance. ... I believe just believing in goodness generates a tiny bit of the stuff, so that being so foolish as to believe in our better natures, if just for a day, we actually contribute to the sum total of generosity in the universe.
The nice thing about having a friend who is crazier than you are is that she bolsters your belief in your own sanity.
Doors are going to open-doors you can't even imagine exist.
Physically it's exhausting to cook every night. Existentially speaking, I have so much more energy having that time to myself in this project, this gift to myself at the end of the day. Even if it didn't go smoothly, it was still a gift.
Maybe I needed to make like a potato, winnow myself down, be part of something that was not easy, just simple.
It's sad, but a relief as well, to know that two things so closely bound together can separate with so little violence.
So the end may be a long time coming, but that doesn't mean it doesn't have a way of sneaking up on you.
If there's a sexier sound on this planet than the person you're in love with cooing over the crepes you made for him, I don't know what it is.
Cooking saved my life! Sure, there were some miserable moments, but that was sort of the point, to find something challenging and consuming enough to take a place in the center of my life into which was creeping a horrible feeling of stasis and the doom of mediocrity.
Nowadays anyone with a crap laptop and an Internet connection can sound their barbaric yawp, whatever it may be.
Sometimes, if you want to be happy, you've got to run away to Bath and marry a punk rocker. Sometimes you've got to dye your hair cobalt blue, or wander remote islands in Sicily, or cook your way through Mastering the Art of French Cooking in a year, for no very good reason.
You can never have too much, butter.
I got my undergrad in Creative Writing, and then I didn't get my Masters in obsession, because I figured I already had that covered.
The blog is certainly another tool for writers out there to break their way in. But being a blogger does not make you a great writer.
There, I was just a secretary-shaped confederation of atoms, fighting the inevitability of mediocrity and decay. But here, in the Juliaverse... energy was never lost, merely converted from one form to another. Here, I took butter and cream and meat and eggs and I made delicious sustenance.
Two years ago, I was a twenty-nine year old secretary. Now I am a thirty-one year old writer. I get paid very well to sit around in my pajamas and type on my ridiculously fancy iMac, unless I'd rather take a nap. Feel free to hate me -- I certainly would.
The road to hell is paved with leeks and potatoes
Metz's Perfection chronicles with lapidary precision one woman's climb back to happiness after not just a spouse's death, but also the shocking recognition that her life before that death was not what she had thought it was. The journey is a painful one, but Ms. Metz is much the stronger for having survived to recount it.
But hard bitten cynicism leaves one feeling peevish, and too much of it can do lasting damage to your heart.
