There’s a strange and completely counter-intuitive thing that has happened since I’ve gotten serious(…ish, who am I kidding?) about my blog here, friends: I seem to have lost interest in cooking for myself.
During the week, I often come home, grab something like cottage cheese and a bell pepper from the fridge, and call it dinner–all the while scheming up weekend plans for the most (hopefully) awesome, (hopefully) interesting, seasonally appropriate, (hopefully) photogenic food possible–the kind you, and maybe some other folks on the world wide web, want to see.
It’s not like the answers to “what would make a killer blog post?” and “what do I want to eat?” never overlap. Obviously, quite the opposite is true. However… The starting place for these ideas is different, and that feels screwy, because cooking what I want, for myself, is how I got here. It led me to cooking for other people, and then eventually, cooking for, uh … the whole world to see if they want. (Sidenote: Yikes.)
In other words (not that we need other words, or gratuitous gifs), I forgot the very principles of the Treat Yo’Self Philosophy.
Anyhow, this weekend, the answer to “what do I want to eat?” was soup. Something mostly green, because of post-holiday slump and semi-solidarity with everyone doing cleanses or somesuch–hang in there, you champs, by the way!
Something vegan (at least until I added that foxy, foxy butter to the bread), because sometimes I feel like a big old hippie. Something hearty, because big old hippies get hungry, too. And something bright and herbal, because even though it’s January, it’s… Not cold here. Heavy hibernation food isn’t really calling my name lately.