I’ve had a post, or several, swirling around in my head for weeks now, but finding the space and time and heart to write here has been a challenge.
Recent world events have left me shaken and deeply sad. The enormity of the devastation and suffering that is happening abroad is overwhelming.
Closer to home, too, there is suffering, news of losses and personal tragedies spreading via Twitter and elsewhere, friends of friends in pain, dealing with grief, yet clinging to hope.
My words feel very small, compared to all that.
And yet, life moves forward. Our life looks much the same on the surface, but we’re moving steadily toward the biggest change we’ve ever known.
I have so much to say, but I find myself struggling with how to write it all down.
Last Night’s Dinner has grown into more than just a food blog to me. It’s really about our lives, less about recipes than it is our history, framed by the meals we share. And for the last four years, it has been fairly easy to talk about food, about myself and Mike and the cats, about people and places, about life and its changes and our place in it all, chronic over-sharer that I am. But now there’s this new little person coming into the mix, and I find myself really struggling with just how much I want to put out there, how much I should put out there.
I’ll admit that for weeks on end I thought about just letting the site fade away, about changing my Twitter bio from “I don’t bake” (which is not entirely accurate anymore) to “Retired Food Blogger.”
I have been more exhausted than I ever imagined possible, barely able to eat dinner some nights, let alone cook, after coming home from a long day of work and commuting – and just forget about taking photos or writing blog posts.
Mike did a fabulous job of making sure we were well fed for most of January and February when I was really down for the count, and he has continued to do much of the heavy lifting well into March while I have tried to rest as much as possible and focus on the important work of building our baby. And even though I have returned to the kitchen, I’ve felt flat and out of sync, not quite sure how to get my groove back.
I can count on one hand the times I’ve made it to the farmers’ market this year. I’ve all but lost count of how many times I’ve started the week with a list and a meal plan, only to be derailed by a craving, a long workday, or just being too darned tired to follow through. And I’ll be perfectly honest, there’s very little in the way of seasonal, locally-grown produce in my kitchen right now. This kid is demanding berries and avocados, slabs of hydroponic tomato from Maine with lots of pepper and coarse grey salt, just-ripe bananas and wheels of mouth-puckering pineapple. Not very locavore of me, but I’m indulging, no apologies.
To be honest, though, I feel like I should apologize, or justify, or explain what I’m eating and why, and that has been a big part of what has kept me from writing here. If there’s one thing I’ve really noticed of late, it’s that people love to give advice to a pregnant woman. Everybody’s got a story, a suggestion, an opinion on what and how much you should or shouldn’t eat, and people will criticize in a heartbeat, especially people who are protected by the cloak of anonymity the internet provides.
Do I really want to put my choices out there for all to pass judgment on? Aren’t these choices really between me and my health care providers? It’s pretty hard to write a food blog and not talk about food. Should I even bother trying to go on here as before, when everything is so different now?
Right now, I don’t have an answer.
My heart swells when I think about the friends Mike and I have made, the opportunities that have come our way, the community of kindred spirits we’ve been welcomed into because of this blog. Our lives are richer for it. I’m very hesitant to give it up. But I’m not quite sure how to get started again.