I like being on the road. While I'm there, troubles from back home float away, my voicemail doesn't torment me, and I am constantly meeting new and interesting people, and, I hope, making them smile. But there are a few things that I miss. Family and friends, obviously, are the biggest ones. Twitter was a nice way to send out those text messages to people who would appreciate many of the bizarre sights that I saw. It's hard being in another country and not being able to just pick up the phone and call or text your mother when you see a unicorn frolicking through the Welsh mist (I swear I did. Butch says it was a white mare, but he couldn't see the horn because he is clearly not pure of heart.)
Something I didn't even realize I missed until I got home late last night is: my kitchen. Isn't that sad? All these weeks of dining in charming restaurants, lovely meals at the homes of new friends, and barbecues on abnormally perfect Irish summer days, and I missed my kitchen of all things.
This afternoon, when I had a piano lesson cancel on me and had 30 minutes to kill, all I wanted to do was go upstairs and bake bread. I don't know if it's the soothing part of baking chemistry that relaxes me or maybe the ability to actually take the time to cook something rather than move on to the next town/gig, but I longed to use mixing bowls, and wooden spoons, and dish after dish after dish.
I've been too busy today to cook anything beyond a Tomato sandwich (with Bibb lettuce from my garden, of course), but I can't wait to sit down with my cookbooks and favorite recipe blogs (www.OysterEvangelist.com I have missed you so!) and make a grocery list. I can't wait for that smell of onions and garlic sauteing in olive oil. I can't wait until my garden produces more than just lettuce.
That all being said, I think my cooking will commence tomorrow. Tonight I'm going out to dinner with my parents. I think after weeks and weeks of eating mostly variations of fried potatoes, I shall have a salad tonight.