Food finds me at my worst. Unlike photography, my (maybe) first creative love, food is there for me when I’m, quite literally, gutted.
On the days my anxiety peaks, baking keeps my body clear of my mind. A physical distraction with an emotional payoff (considering the baked good turns out, that is). I can keep my days filled with tarts, muffins, sweet breads and perhaps, pavlovas (failed or otherwise). A (sweet) physical task is the biological cure for a busy mind.
When depression sulks in, so does soup. The prep itself feels like a virtuous task, meditative in its way and duly, an act of self-care. Soup feels like medicine, the creation and the feat, soothing what ails you, whether it’s thick or brothy.
Food finds me at my best and at my worst. When I’m feeling in love, impassioned, inspired, hot, cold, self-loathing, panicked, filled with grief, existential, anxious, sad, lethargic, tapped out from all things; gutted. I find even when I feel I can’t possibly cook, I do. Food always finds me.