First posts are awkward. Full of pressure and promise. A hopeful declaration of intentions backed with oversized expectations and, in my case, pages of angst-y journal entries over the whole blasted thing. You would think I was some brooding middle schooler and not a grown-ass woman of 32 years.
That’s not the point. Although, I feel that if you and I are going to get to know each other, it should be with the understanding that sometimes I am crazypants and way too self-aware. Real talk. Now, on to the pretty...
Ink & Fork has been a phantom swirling in my brain for months, constellations of ideas that leaked themselves onto journal pages, scrappy lists stuffed into the bottom of my purse and finally, here. After blogging elsewhere for the last two years, I discovered something magical by way of the kitchen, although I can't quite pinpoint the exact moment it happened.
Maybe it was while cooking for my love (also known as "The Mister") in a tiny Sarasota bungalow or while I killed time between careers in a musty old house in North Carolina. It could have happened when I got soil under my fingernails for the first time or the days after, when I watched the sprouts, my sprouts, yawn out from the soil looking for sun. It could've been during the months of waiting for first harvest or on a Saturday, early, when I snuck away to market.
Somewhere in the ebb and flow of these last few years, in between moments of disappointment and hopefulness, amidst celebration and grief, while living an ordinary life, I found my center in the kitchen.
In my kitchen, I can capture all the bits and bobs of life, past and present. I can summon my childhood with the swipe of a spatula or revisit mornings with my late father just by the sizzle and pop of a perfectly fried egg. Grandmothers can live forever beneath a cake dome and family traditions, yet to be discovered, are tucked neatly on the baking shelf.
When the Mister and I prep side by side, blasting Celia Cruz while we make chimichurri, a new love language exists. Even on the low days, we can come together in the kitchen– chopping and cutting, the meditative balm to emotional wounds.
No matter the season, it is the place for all things.
Ink&Fork is part creative outlet and part compelling urge to capture and hold tight to all the lovely and messy details of life and all of its peculiar lessons. Without a record, I am bound to forget. Without a place to return to, how will I ever remember where I came from or, for that matter, where I am going.