Analyze This

Reams of paper (and gigs of webspace) have been devoted to the therapeutic properties of cooking, I know. Sometimes I'm not so sure - where is the therapy in having to throw together a meal after a hideous day, when you really just want to collapse on the couch?

But today, after a long and difficult work week, I did get some therapy in the kitchen. This morning, knowing the day ahead was going to be tough, I decided to make meringue 'bones' to send in to Phoebe's class for Halloween. I had already bagged up (specially ordered American) candy to send in, but usually I make something and I didn't feel right about not doing so. Piping meringue into bone shapes at 7.30 in the morning isn't everyone's idea of fun, but, bizarrely, it perked me up no end.

By the end of the day, I had failed to meet two deadlines for work (a rare and awful thing for me). I thought about what the consequences of this might be: 1. For the first job, nothing. 2. For the second job, a book publishing closer to the edge of its reporting period than the publisher might like. Will they think less of me? Given the deadlines I was given to start with, and my usual promptness, one would hope not.

So at 5.30pm, I left my work where it was and went into the kitchen. I rummaged through fridge, freezer and files, and found a recipe I'd wanted to try for ages and the necessary ingredients. I put Lucinda Williams on the stereo, poured myself a glass of wine and started chopping, measuring and pouring.

I will still be working over the weekend (again), but at least I will have enjoyed my Friday evening. Perhaps it was the puttering in the kitchen; perhaps the solitude; perhaps the giving up of unrealistic expectations.