Blog...another word for lunacy

My kitchen is torn apart right now. And it’s all because I started a blog.

The first thing on my list of things to do after returning to France after my 3 1/2 week Christmas trip to the states, was to start a blog. I was reticent to do it but it seems to be a necessary portal on the pathway to writing a book. I’m reluctant for many reasons. First and foremost…. I barely know what a blog is!  Secondly, a blog is so….public. Writing for the not-so-big population of Wittenberg and a few friends on Facebook is completely different than having your life exposed for all the world to see (okay, maybe not all the world but they could read it if they wanted to!) But, in fact, a book really lays one wide open so I suppose I need to get used to it.

So I began the process of learning about blogs, learning how to blog, trying to wrap my mind around links and SOS and code and monetizing. This in itself took days and I found myself sitting on my little, supremely uncomfortable, yellow chair for hours at a time, staring at my computer, periodically stretching my back, looking out the window and realizing I was missing the one sunny day this week and wondering what the hell it was all for.

I finally felt comfortable enough with it all to jump in. I designed my page (if you can call it design), entered article number one, sent an email to everyone I know, published the address on Facebook…and waited.

Okay, that’s how it was supposed to go. Instead, I have spent every day since, messing with it, checking statistics, reconfiguring the HTML, and trying to wrap the rest of my brain cells around links, SOS, code and monetizing. And the sunny  days continue to pass.

Saturday, after a week of this, a friend decided to have a small birthday party and I said of course I would bring something. I finally put some makeup on, got dressed and went to the market. Just the idea of cooking got me so excited and I went a little overboard.  I just couldn’t decide which particular hors d’oevre in my limited repertoire that I should make and I just…kept….buying.  I came home and began peeling, chopping, draining, toasting and all and all, having a fabulous time. While tearing around the kitchen in this manner (okay you can’t really tear around in a kitchen the size of mine. It was more like a side step with a couple of pirouettes) I decided I really ought to make a cake. Back to the store to see if I could scrounge up anything that resembled the ingredients in my recipe. While baking the cake I realized I had a little spinach in the fridge. Perhaps I should make Spanakopita too! Went back out to the Greek store, bought feta and phyllo dough, returned to the destruction that is Delana-in-the-Kitchen, and started the tedious but fun process of building the layers of phyllo and butter and filling them with spinach and feta cheese.

Truthfully, I can’t decide if this woman-gone-mad behavior was because I was excited to cook or if it just felt so great to go outside.

Finally, all was finished and just in time. I looked at the various bowls, and plates and containers filled with food on my table and realized there was no way to carry this stuff. I got out my red shopping bag on wheels and carefully stacked the goodies inside, hoping the Glad Press-n-Seal wrap that I brought back from the States would hold while I carried it down 3 flights of stairs, rolled it across several blocks of cobblestones and carried it up 2 more flights of stairs.

And so I arrived at the party, not with a bowl of nuts or olives but with a cart rolling behind me! Keep in mind; the French don’t “feast” like we do in the midwest.  An aperitif truly might consist of some olives and a little foie gras but not the array of chips and cream cheese roll-ups and dips that you expect at a party chez nous. So as I unpacked my cache, each container was met with a French noise…. something like “pphhoow”.  I think it means "Holy Shit! Enough already!”.

I am happy to report that all was eaten, all was enjoyed and now I have to write up all the recipes in French as requested. Which would not be so bad if I knew what I actually did. It’s still all a blur.

However, I think that all this frenzied cuisine activity took a toll on my sink, which I am quite sure has never experienced such a tempest. After cleaning the mess up the next day and actually running the dishwasher, my under- the- sink water heater sprung a colossal leak. My landlord is replacing it…. but one step at a time and as can often be the case here, it could take weeks.

So my kitchen counter and floor is piled with paper towels, drain cleaner, insect spray, cleaning products, dishwashing liquid and mops and buckets. And it’s all because of this damned blog!

This is the sort of day I'm missing!


                                                                   

This article orginally published in the Wittenberg Enterprise  January 26, 2010