It's 34 degrees outside. Wolf has been down for a nap for 20 minutes, sleeping in the middle of the bed in the only room in the house that has air conditioning. I've already made myself a ham, cheese and tomato toasted sandwich, scarfed it down and watched 10 painfully informative minutes of Oprah. Most days I manage to get down a couple glasses of milk, some juice, biscuits if we have any, an apple, some squares of chocolate; enough to keep me going while I entertain, educate, comfort, feed and change my baby son. But when I get a few minutes to myself, to slice up that last heel of sourdough, slap together some slices of cheese and tomato and any salad or meat we have lying around the fridge, I suddenly feel sane again. Taking the time to make a sandwich and then sit down and eat it can turn a fairly difficult, stressful day, into a good one.
Maybe it's because I'm obsessed with food. Actually downing something wholesome, tasty and filling is like my version of a cup of tea and a lie down or a manicure or having your hair done. Maybe it's because I miss being in a commercial kitchen and the smallest act of putting together a decent little meal makes me feel like a useful person again. Even when the bread is stale. Even when the cheese is going dry at the edges. As long as there are two slices of yeasty goodness with something in between, I can remember that I exist for myself as well as my son and partner.