It's rather bloody hard to type one handed. Especially when you have a wriggling nearly-three-month-old in one arm. Thankfully he's finally falling asleep, giving me 5 minutes to express my thoughts with a rapid hand, much like expressing so much abundant breast milk. A hand over-muscular from a life of chopping, whisking and kneading now put to work with a breast pump. And a keyboard.
I was a cook, and before that an apprentice pastry chef. Even before that a student of creative writing at University. And now a mother at 23. I feel displaced; I'm between identities. Someone said it would help to talk about it.
But I don't want to talk about me, former locus of good times, hard-work and general mischief. I really want to talk about food and babies, cooking and eating out. Whatever else comes out is just a side dish.
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