My emotions ebbed and flowed, the stress warped my shoulder muscles and the depression sucked the life out of me. I struggled with the wine bottle, as it was becoming a deeper friend to me than I had ever intended or wanted. Then one day as I sat in my darkened living room watching the ever mind numbing sound box for the millionth hour, I watched a woman make a cake and thought I can do that!
It had to be the Prozac that I was told to take for this womanly transition into stage two of my so called life because I could cook pretty well, but to take on baking seemed insane. I went to the store and bought a cookbook as well as a book of dessert recipes. With my love of reading, I studied these recipes and read them like the fictional tale of my favorite authors. The ingredients, the directions, the music that played while I would mix, whir, stir and fold. I bought utensils, kitchen accessories, and more cookbooks to perfect my craft. I would ask Santa every year for a new gadget that I needed because I knew I was on the good girl list! I was lost in the masterpieces that I created and longed for the solitary movements of the dance that was food creation.
Birthday cakes, muffins for coworkers, many recipes tried by the friends of my children that I lovingly called my precious guinea pigs as I rubbed my palms back and forth. Dinner parties came next with friends and family enjoying all that lay before them on the table. The smells that filled the senses upon entering my home was that of coziness and love. Menus were the most fun to create, as the food became a Broadway play for all to enjoy.
It has been about eleven years now and my kitchen is one of beauty with all my gadgets, a fill of herbs and spices and a pantry that has items that one would never think to purchase built from many recipes followed or created. The menopause? Well the hot flashes still come and go, no more night sweats and a good bottle of Merlot is still my friend and thankfully not my prison. The art that happens now no longer comes from a place unseated or a medical need to remain the same but a place of love and a craft perfected.