Something useful.

It has been weeks since I've run. 

Weeks.

I'm not sure what to do with myself anymore.

I walked around the block last week and thought I might die. I usually walk halfway across campus, stop to rest, and continue on my way to class. Whatever is going on with me, it is truly a pain in the ass.

I've been lost, depressed, and roaming. My advisor made me promise I'd do something useful for myself over spring break. 

And so I started baking. 

Well, really, I started baking sometime at the beginning of nursing school both as a necessity and as stress relief.  Cooking led me to a slightly unhealthy love of all things Anthony Bourdain. It borders on obsession, really. I love the snark. 

As it is spring break, and I promised my advisor I'd do something relaxing, and running (my go to relaxation) is out of the question, I've done some reading. Most recently, Medium Raw. 

It made me think of some of the most memorable meals I've ever eaten. 

When I was a toddler, we had blueberry bushes on the left side of the house. There were three of them. I think they were always taller than me. My mother used to send me out into the yard to pick blueberries in the summer. I remember always picking the largest berries off the bush and popping them directly into my mouth. I'd pluck the juicy berries, dropping them into the Budweiser bucket that my mother gave me to fill (it later held my father's wallet and loose change). I remember the how the array of colors provided a never ending surprise (who knew one fruit could look so different?!). I loved the way each fruit exploded in my mouth, as though it were totally different from the last. Indeed, they were. And for some reason, I could never leave a big one in the bucket. (Confession: I still have this problem.) I think I usually came back into the house with three or four berries and empty bushes.

The pea pods in the dark soil, tasting of green crunch and dirt also stand out as clearly as the sharp splinters of the sundeck.

I am in 9th grade. It is summer and I've spent the better part of a week re-roofing a house in the Appalachian Mountains in Virginia. I am in what my teenage suburban self thought was the middle of nowhere. I am dirty. Even after scrubbing, I have dirt in the cracks of my hands. I have a sense of fulfillment like no other I've ever known. I've met wonderful people. People who not only let strangers into their home, but also let strangers destroy part of their meager existence and actually trust that they will put it back together. They thank us for this. And not only this, but they fed us. 

It is more food than I remember at any Thanksgiving. Creamed corn, fresh tomatoes, raw pea pods, and greens fresh from the garden, a chicken from  the yard, gravy, canned beets and more tomatoes from the previous year. Piping hot biscuits slathered in butter and unsweet tea. I eat till my belly hurts.

Fast forward ten years to a little homemade food truck, parked on the corner of the street, with a line of people forming around it. Only instead of tall, complaining Americans, these are local people, just getting off work. Forgoing the bright lights of the nearby restaurant, I head directly to the line. On a paper thin plate, corn tortillas appear filled with beans, rice, fish, corn, cilantro, and a salsa so spicy my eyes water. Steam pours off the top of each taco, and I close my eyes to savor each bite.

I am still in Mexico, or at least I think I am. My head pounds angrily at the bright sun that even my dark sunglasses fail to shield me from. My feet seek out sure footing on the cobblestone street. I sink mericfuly into a chair, the metal cool on my back. Dark, acrid coffee appears, making everything a little less awful. Soon, plates of fruit join the coffee: pineapple, papaya, mango and coconut followed by eggs with a smoky salsa. After a few bites, I come to life enough to realize I can still hear the ocean. I close my eyes in bliss.

A little pub, tucked away in the corner of the bend, is home to more meat pies than I care to think about. After a long day of traveling, the green carpet, American music on the jukebox, and pint glasses of unfamiliar lagers and stouts call my name. We are boisterous, despite the 12 hour car ride. Though it is only 7:30, this pub is winding down, and our loud, American voices draw the looks of everyone in the place. Stringy chicken, a lamb from the farmer in the back yard, and fish from the day's catch are paired with vegetables. The comfort of the legendary English staples of bland potatoes and carrots, overcooked to mush, and saved by the familiarity of onion, pairs well with the drizzle outside. 

These meals stand out as much for the company and the locale as much as for the food itself and I wonder if it is possible to have such a great food experience when one is at home, stuck in familiarity.

And so I cook. I bake. I play with flours and recipes, trying to figure out just how weather effects gluten free flours. 

I make gluten free French bread. In a bread maker. And I come up with chocolate chocolate chip cookies. Light and fluffy, the batch I took to my co-workers was gone before I realized it. (Not that I am disappointed. This not working out thing has me feeling all kinds of fluffy.)

Also, in my time of not working out and therefore having a few moments that are not filled with sweat, I started playing the mandolin. 

I love the internets. I'm  starting to think it is possible to learn any and everything from YouTube. I'm still quite terrible and have no aspirations of being able to do anything more than strum a string of chords together without sounding too awful. Mostly because I am not willing to go through the pain. I discovered that for about an hour after playing, my nerves are scrambled and my phone is confused by them. As in, it doesn't work. At all.

So I'm baking cookies and sitting on my ass instead of working out.

I'm not sure how useful any of this is. 

In fact, I'm pretty sure this isn't going to end well.