That happened tonight.
My sister's boss requested oatmeal chocolate chip cookies on Tuesday, and today I felt like that was doable so I promised to bring 2 dozen for him tomorrow. On facebook I "advertised" that I had an additional 4 dozen available (feeling ambitions and optimistic, I guess) and three more people signed up for cookies. I got home and started baking. It was lovely for a minute, until it wasn't. I don't know what changed or when, but at one point I had to remove myself from the kitchen and do a myriad of other things. Wash my hair. Fold laundry. Scrub the floors. My heart felt like it was going to explode and I couldn't process what was happening, I just knew I couldn't touch the food anymore. I hate that. I miss the days when I could be in the kitchen making anything and everything and feel joy! Or even indifference. Anything is better then the paralyzing anxiety I felt tonight.
**When baking, laundry, and hair washing combine. . . it's like the perfect storm. Stylish.**
I'm hoping that as I push through and just DO IT, food will get progressively less scary and the fun will come back into my culinary world.
When my little brother got home I made him eat a cookie to make sure they were ok. I'm not at a place where I can do that yet, so I usually have him taste things. He always says my stuff is "bomb." Adjective, not noun. And that usually makes me so happy to hear. Tonight I just felt guilty. Guilty for making him eat a cookie: something I can't even do. It almost felt like asking someone to ingest poison on my behalf.
Anyway. . . I did it, at least. 5 dozen cookies completed.