Really, where does the time go? Most of it is spent at work. Another chunk goes to commuting. That's ten to 15 hours a week I'll never get back. The next portion is sleep. I try to manage a good fifty hours, but it is probably less with all the trips to the bathroom, drinks of water and searches for food. No, I don't actually eat in the middle of the night. I just look to make sure there's something in there if I were so inclined. I haven't mentioned cooking in there. Well, who really has time to cook anymore? What's my motivation? Where's the inspiration? After all, who really appreciates the work that goes into a good meal? Your family scarfs it down, mumbles something incoherent, then races off to the next time eater. It's almost enough to put a girl off her feed. Almost, nothing's quite that bad.
So, this brings me to a crossroad. I like the stability of a job, but I need the freedom of my kitchen. I long to be covered in flour surrounded by the scents of cinnamon, vanilla, lemon and that oh so intoxicating aroma of brown sugar melting with butter. In my lonely cubicle, I feel as if I am dying a slow agonizing death one order record at a time. There is no passion here, no fire, no satisfaction. There is no joy here. I know where my joy lives. It lives in my kitchen. Baking dwells in my heart. When the two are together, we produce a love unlike anything you've ever tasted before.
I'll keep you posted on when my joy and I can be together permanently. If all goes right, it will be soon. Get your wish lists ready.