I asked our fourteen-year-old granddaughter, Violet, if she thought blogs were dead. She said, “Well, I know in food blogs, I just scroll on by all their life stories. I only want the recipe.” Then she smiled, “I guess you probably aren’t writing a food blog.”
She knows me so well.
After fifty years of marriage, four kids, seventeen grandchildren, and several Cousins’ Camps, I still don’t cook. I mean, I keep us alive. But cooking is not my joy, my comfort, or my creative outlet. I tell people I have time to write novels because I don’t bake cookies.
(Note: I do love to eat, so there is a problem in this equation.)
At times, I have felt guilty about my lack of interest in cooking. It seems like something one should enjoy if one were the recipient of the Betty Crocker Homemaker of the Year Award in 1974. And, I do love homemaking. It was my goal from childhood to make a home and love a family. But, I would much rather match socks than cook supper.
Years ago, I ditched the guilt, though. So, I don’t like to cook. Big deal. Neither does my husband. We get by just fine together. I could eat breakfast for every meal, and he could open a can of beans. (We don’t. But we could.) I no longer compare myself to friends and family members who love to cook and do it from ingredients they grow in their gardens. I admire them tremendously, but I don’t envy them or feel like a lessor woman.
So, you are right, dear Violet. Not a food blog. Just a “here’s what I think about that” blog. Which may be a dead pursuit. But, it helps me sort my thoughts, so I guess I’ll keep blogging. Please excuse me now, Dear Reader, I’m off to bake brownies from a box to go with our sandwiches for lunch.