February 11, 2007
There is no doubt about it today. There is a connection between my writing and my cooking, two ways in which I express myself, define myself. I went to the draft of the story I wrote this week, reading it after I’d let it cool for a while. I realized that in that story and in another well-received one, a man observes a woman cooking and falls in love with her.
Yesterday I made pizza from scratch. (Well, almost scratch — I did use a prepared Boboli crust and canned sauce.) I browned sausage and spread mushrooms on it, put some pepperoni on my half, and then lavished shredded mozzarella and provolone all over it. It didn’t look like a Pizza Hut item (no folded over edge with cheese oozing out), and you had to eat it with a knife and fork, but it was really good. (7 Weight Watcher points, for those counting.) Today I alternated cooking and writing. Before I went to church I made sticky rice, a Thai dessert of jasmine rice sweetened with coconut milk and served with mango — 9 points). During the afternoon I made chicken breasts with spinach and fresh basil (another Thai dish — I do not know how or where I acquired my love for Thai cuisine — 7 points if served with rice) and apple pie for dinner (the apple pie decidedly the American variety but kept to 7 points by using a crumb topping instead of another full crust), and tortellini en brodo (prepackaged tortellini in a broth flavored with scallions and hot sauce — 5 points) for tomorrow.
I was planning on a writer’s field trip tomorrow, but if I have to stay home to wait for the garage door repairman, I’ll make Italian bread to go with the soup and 1-point chocolate bites.
Still unexplained is why my mood is so sunny during a February, a time a friend once described as twenty-eight dark, horrible, unnecessary days, especially a February when the temperature has been below freezing for ten solid days.