I cook to relax. Not relaxing for everyone. I enjoy it. Even living alone. It is what I like to do. When I’m eating frozen and boxed meals. I am not happy. Although, sometimes when I am by myself I just pop dinner in the microwave. I only cook for people I like. I don’t like you….oops, sorry…not going to make it. I’ll grab a box of crap if forced to. Like when my ex wanted me to cook a pumpkin pie at home – we buy ours from Costco. I just threw the shit he bought in the trash. No, that shit is not coming into our house.
I come from a long line of people who knew how to make things. I wouldn’t even believe it, were it not for the evidence in my living room—a chair built by my great-grandfather, a tall bookshelf my grandfather built years ago for my mother. Whereas I consider it an achievement that two weeks ago I pieced together a Canadian Tire bistro set. A table and two chairs that will no doubt fall apart in a few seasons, cheaply made and sold in a flat pack.
But of all the solid wooden things that connect me to my family’s past, the most important is my rolling pin. It was my grandmother’s, and I acquired it after she died. At the time, she was living in a retirement home suite with a kitchenette, a mini-fridge, no oven to speak of, so it seems surprising that she still had her rolling pin…
View original post 730 more words