Hi Darling Ones,
The other day I made my favorite soup, pasta e fagioli, and focaccia for dinner.
This was the first time I ever made focaccia. While I love all kinds of foods made using yeast, making those kinds of foods is not my favorite.
Yeast requires faith and trust, and I hate those things.
Yeast turns me into someone who prays to a higher power, another thing I am not a fan of.
Yeast is a finicky bitch and you don’t know until much too late if you fucked it all up.There’s no second chance or do-over, and second chances & do-overs are what I do best.
I was pleased as fuck when I ended up making the best focaccia ever in the entirety of time and space. Who knew I was so talented?
No joke, that shit was (is, there’s still some left) delicious. The entire time I was eating my soup and bread I was chanting in my head, This is so good. I am so happy this is so good.
I needed a culinary win. After talking about it for 55 months, I finally made the feijoada with the fancy Rancho Gordo beans and it was a giant bowl of fail, at least to me. BFK loved it.
Anyway, as I was enjoying my soup and the best focaccia to ever focacc, I kept thinking about what I would write about it. I was ready to post a picture while steam was still rising off the soup.
But, as you can tell, I did not write about it right then. I told myself I did not have to be doing something every single minute of every single day.
It was difficult, Darling Ones. But I forced myself to just sit there and enjoy the soup, to be content by the whir of the dishwasher, and to be okay being the only one enjoying this moment.
Whether or not anyone knew about my fucking excellent focaccia did not make it any less excellent. Did I need someone to bear witness to validate that I made some good soup and bread? Was the focaccia somehow symbolic of my worth as a woman, a human and how would people know of that worth if I did not tell them about it?
Umm. . .
I posted a picture on Instagram and tweeted about it ten minutes after I had these thoughts. But I waited a whole ten minutes, which felt like something.
Since then, I’ve been examining my urge to share all the things mundane or otherwise.
Why do I do it? I’m not sure yet. It’s probably some combination of living a small life and having little to write about; humble-bragging about what a great cook I am; being a little lonely and wanting to be seen; and some other thing I haven’t thought about yet.
Your essays on the symbolism of focaccia are due Thursday and worth 1/3 of your final grade.