Okay, so first off, I’m not trying to infiltrate the cook blog niche. With that being said, let’s dive into today’s episode of The Great British bake off, but with a twist. All the contestants participating have to have a moderate to severe anxiety disorder. In my kitchen, I allow ( and even encourage) my cooks to fly off the handle, have a full blown panic attack while kneading the flour for dough, projectile vomit into the sink and go into an existential dread while standing over the stove and gazing into the ever so slightly flickering blue flames. Yes, it’s all terrible, come on down!
I have had a love for cooking since I made my first cup of tea at the ripe old age of ten. The control you have over how a dish turns out to be/ tastes just fascinated me. Plain and simple. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that I had no control over whatever was happening in my life, or maybe I was always just super duper lonely. It was probably a combination of the both. I felt like a marionette finally cutting off it’s strings the moment I walked through the kitchen door. In a gentle and almost ballet-esque motion I’d walk by the pantry, the spice rack, the fridge, collecting ingredients as I went. Fantasizing about whatever sorcery I intended to create that day.
When I was done, there’d be a mountain of dirty dishes in the sink. Pots, Pans, knives, spoons…you get the gist. My mother used to get so mad at me for sneaking in there and making a mess. I notice now that I’m typing this out, she never got mad because I was around, you know, fucking knives and a stove, it was always the mess I used to make that got her fired up (no pun intended) I basically learned kitchen hygiene, operating knives and how to not burn down the whole damn house (you know, the basics) all by myself. So, how does this meandering tale of child neglect have anything to do with today’s post? Well, I dropped a china bowl sometime last year (as you do) and in a split second, my index and middle finger started gushing blood like a vengeful fountain (as you do) I swear the kitchen looked like a crime scene when my dad dragged me out of there cause I was just standing at the counter, shrieking atonally, transfixed by the thought that even my own blood vessels couldn’t wait to rush out of my miserable body the first chance they got, just tired of keeping my heart alive through all the panic attacks it’s endured throughout it’s two decades of existence…
15 colorfully painful stitches later…
I was so traumatized by the whole thing, I started having nightmares. My safe haven had now been tainted. Raided, stained and invaded by the color of “DANGER- KEEP OUT” But I eventually bounced back. Slowly. And I can’t stress that enough. It took me a year to be comfortable in kitchens again. But I don’t think I can ever associate kitchens with sweet escapism ever again. Maybe there’s a lesson to be learned there. China bowls can go fuck themselves.
Hope y’all are keeping safe and healthy. Trying my best to be consistent with my posting even though things are a little topsy turvy right now.
Love,
Prady 💕💕
Prady On The Beat 