Why I Haven't Posted...

I haven't posted here in a very long time for a number of reasons. The primary reason is a bit embarrassing to write: it pissed me off this blog never got me a cooking TV show.

I know, I know. I should have blogged for the sheer joy of blogging. But I'm afraid to say part of my ego was hoping my witty and intelligent writing would be noticed like so many others and I'd be whisked away into a studio and taped for all prosperity and have my own talk show/variety show/cooking show, but as you can tell...

I had endless meetings with TV executives, psychics, friends, cooks, hookers, colleagues, producers - I work in cable TV so I know how to do this. But...it never happened. Even my friggin' BOSS told me it was a good idea.

It never happened.

So I am left now with this blog. A blog I spent countless hours writing.

My hubby of nearly 13 years told me he was concerned about me. He said I have not been cooking. He has been traveling a great deal and I haven't had him at the house as much to cook for. I told him I haven't been cooking for me because I always wanted to cook for US. He pooh-poohed me. Said I cooked for me. Said he never really needed the cooking. Said the cleaning and the fuss and the muss and the money annoyed him. I then rambled off his top ten meals and he retaliated, said yes, maybe I did like all the cooking you used to do.

So why don't I cook for myself with him traveling so much? Why have I lost the urge to cook? It's true, I'm preparing to put up a new one-man theater show, but it's not up yet. Directors are reading it, I'm not in rehearsal, I finished writing it and I've got evenings free to cook.

What is happening?

I was recently in an independent movie. I was the victim of an alien probing. Yes, I know. How very 'independent movie'. The filmmakers are two very very sweet straight boys in Long Island. I adore them. They are hysterical and committed to their art. They don't get weird with the gay thing and always have very good reefer. Nice boys all the way around.

After we finished a day of shooting, the producer took me to his family's house for dinner. He had asked me weeks before if I wanted to have dinner and I said no. I was content to be depressed in my Queens apartment with my lover traveling so much for work. But the day got away from us and we ended up at his parents house.

I met his mother and father. Both regarded me skeptically. They're from Long Island. Everyone from Long Island was born skeptical. Not the most embracing of cultures, but once you are in, you're in. After his mother and father seemed to like me, they proceed to feed me. Chicken breast in a white wine reduction; homemade pumpkin cheesecake; messy and tasty blueberry pie with a homemade crust; cheese and crackers with fresh pepper and marmalade -- all to the constant whirring and blending of mixers and blenders and an extremely noisy dishwasher.

I loved it. I loved every minute of it. I got lost for a bit in how the family I grew up in was never this accepting and loud. How my producer friend could smoke up in front of his parents and they didn't care. How the food was a community thing.

My lover is partially right. I do cook for me. To enjoy the undefinable rush of assembling ingredients and the process of cooking and mixing and tasting and coming to an end result that is wonderful and never the same. But food and cooking is a thing of family and people. It's a sharing. I miss that. Now that's he's gone so much, I miss the sharing of food.

I said over 8 years ago when I first had the idea for The Food Therapist show, I cook to give back to people and to make them feel good. That is the reason I cook. I don't care if anyone doesn't believe that anymore, but I know it's the truth.

Maybe it's time I started to cook for myself and to share with me. What an odd thing to consider.

In any case, we'll see how much longer I keep this blog alive. I am still heartbroken this never resulted in a cooking show. Something I would have been so fucking GOOD at.

Youtube. Everyone tells me to Youtube. I don't know.

I just don't know.