I don’t cook that often.
My obsessiveness leads me to constantly rework the same thing over and over and over again until I’m finally happy with the finished product and then I will continue to make that thing and nothing else to the end of my days.
I have a recipe for chocolate chip cookies that is exactly where I want it. The spread is perfect. The chewiness is where it needs to be.
They. Are. Perfect.
Same with the gin martini. I have all the ingredients. I have the ratios. I have it where I want it.
But I don’t get any joy out of it. Just a deep satisfaction that is based more on fulfilling some sort of BS neurosis.
Also, my blog is becoming more and more navel gazing.
I think I’m going to need to do five or six more beer reviews before the thirty days is up.
I don’t enjoy trying new things because it means I have to start that process again. The process of getting it right. The constant headbutting against the wall, over and over again until I get it where I want it to be and then the goddamn relief when I finally do have it where I want it. It’s locked in and I can just enjoy it for what it is without worrying about screwing around with it anymore.
At the end of the day, there’s a part of me that asks what’s the point of doing something at all if I can’t do it right?
Christ, this went to a depressing place for me. I honestly just started this wanting to share my cookie recipe.