I hit a slump last week. I had been on a high since Christmas. I got some compliments on my homemade gifts, and I got to make dinner for my family. I was on a roll with some delicious soups. I even sold my first chutney! Then I made one so-so dish–chicken fricassee—and then felt a cold coming on. I was over-tired, groggy, blah. I cooked another “meh” dish—“pistou” shrimp. After that I nearly had a melt-down. I had followed the recipes to a tee. I didn’t know what I was doing wrong. I began to pull out my hair. I breathed hard out my nose and said “herrrumphh.” I’m not good with failure.
I was going to bag the cooking for the rest of this week, but thankfully Jim coerced me to change my mind, though he was unconscious of doing so. See, he had no idea how much I was struggling, even commending me for being such a “big girl” and taking my “meh” dishes in stride. I was just too tired to outwardly make a fuss over the dishes (which must really mean I’m sick) and I didn’t complain, smiling grimly and eating my dinner, too tired to start anything over, but repeatedly telling myself that I needed a rest. Jim, the healthy boy he is, couldn’t wait for the next night, excitedly talking about recipes, looking at me with puppy-dog eyes and asking what’s next.