Shopping for eggs has its own charm out here in the country. I just head out across the pasture, near the family’s garden, and past the new apple, peach, and plum trees to a dilapidated and weathered round hay bale. That’s where the “Easter basket” sits, always full of surprises. The other day it held six eggs, and today, a full dozen. I’m practically egg-rich! Part of me worries that a fox or raccoon might catch onto this jackpot, but for now, wish me luck—I’m hoping for triple 7’s every time I head to the hay bale.
Years ago, I was in a relationship that felt like quicksand. It was like Atreyu’s horse in The Neverending Story—the harder I pulled, the deeper it sank. I remember sitting in my supervisor’s office, rare for me to share personal struggles, but he had a lifetime of clinical wisdom. After hearing my story, he simply said, “Seems like a bomb needs to go off.” And sure enough, one did—months later, in the form of a police call and a restraining order.
I often use the metaphor of a beach ball for buried needs or emotions with clients. Push it down all you want; eventually, it will explode upward, gasping for air. That bomb metaphor hit home recently. Recognizing the stuck feeling for what it was, I realized I needed to confront it head-on.
My cooking game, though, is stuck in a rut. I plated a sad-looking meal of watery bacon, mushy cauliflower mac and cheese, and questionably fried chicken breasts, and for a moment, I wondered if those 25 minutes of effort were worth it. At one point, I could pull off chicken piccata, enchiladas, and even butter chicken with decent finesse, but these days, my knives are dull, and my milk’s gone sour. What gives?
I think it’s time to go back to basics, a one-two, cha-cha-cha kind of approach. I’ll follow recipes to the letter, no “funny business.” For a serial ingredient adder like me, that’s a big change, but maybe that’s what I need: a little “boring” to get back on track.
Love,
Jaclynn
Going On 40 