Today I tried something new.  Rage Cooking. I don’t recommend it.  I have always enjoyed cooking as therapy.  Have been the one who professes to always cook with love.  Last night after I learned my beloved home state had jumped off the political cliff and taken its citizens hostage with it, I went to bed mad as two hissing cats. After a fitful night of pseudo sleep, I woke up with the anger still percolating. Ready to erupt.  As my custom, I went into the kitchen to calm myself and found instead to hold onto my rage fiercely.  That’s when everything went amok. One burned out emulsifier wand, broken eggs on the kitchen tiles, bouncing utensils, food spattered ceiling to floor, I was operating in a complete mess both literally and figuratively.  All this before breakfast.

I’m struggling with the lesson learned. Where is the pearl here? The result on the plate tasted fine to my husband. It was a salty bitter lump going down for me. I did joke about my killing us with a ‘heart attack on a plate’ before the virus gets us, but even that provided little comfort. We have no operating instructions for this world careening off its axis.  Maybe it’s just OK to be mad sometimes and stew in it. But I do suggest to back away from any sharp instruments. And do a small business a favor…order take out. Time to take a deep breath.

Post Script…my state did not let me down.  On Wisconsin!