distance, as they say...

I spent the last few days in NYC, visiting my older brother (who just graduated from grad school!) and spending most of the time either walking or eating. Which at least balances out when it comes to calories.

But given my setting, a sparkling city with exotic, new-to-me restaurants every two paces, and my temperament, marked by growing curiosity toward foodstuffs of most every ilk, I didn't expect to miss my homey little kitchen in KC.

Seriously! My asparagus in the fridge, and the poor little basil plant I bought just before leaving...what would become of them, untended? Would my chives wilt? Un-used ingredients patiently waiting their turn in the spotlight haunted my thoughts. And not just that -- I was missing cooking, like you might miss a person. Why?

I have a couple theories.

First: restaurants cost money. Especially in New York. Home-based cookery? Not as much. Even though my awesome parents were willing to pay my way everywhere, I felt anxious about it, and wanted to be able to do something other than argue about the bills.

Second: active domesticity, for me, equals creativity. I love using my hands & head. All that got exercised in NYC were my feet & belly. (Still a good experience, though!)

Third: cooking challenges me. I love putting stuff together and finding out what happens. And the more I explore, the bolder and brighter my dreams get. (Relatively speaking, of course.)

And fourth -- I'm on a roll with ginger, people, so please don't stop me.

There's not a whole lot to take away from this revelation (unless it causes a similar one in you). But I'm kind of excited to know that cooking means more to me than I had thought, at least at this time in life. Apparently it's a form of expression and challenge that I need, and want. And that's exciting.

And more practically, and excitedly, speaking...

A girl still in possession of raw rhubarb must be in want of the time to use it.

But not for long, friends. Not for long.