There is no denying it. After less than a month of working almost exclusively from home, my eccentricities are multiplying at an exponential rate. First came the strange sartorial impulses - turbans, pompadours, kimonos - and now I realize I've fallen into the obsessive cooking that characterizes the onsets of my manic periods. In the past week I have made:
A braised pork shoulder (with mashed potatoes and celery root; roast parsnips and carrots)
Chocolate Chip Cookies
...and an identical level of productivity for the preceding weeks. Do I eat it? No. My own menus are as circumscribed as ever: 90% yogurt, 5% coffee, 5% salad - pure predilection and habit - but the sense of purpose and achievement I get from cooking is addictive, and the compulsion to cook for loved ones to show my dedication is equally unhealthy.
I am going to alert Slim to this and ask him to assume cooking a few nights a week (lentils here I come!) and stick to the plan of only what we both need. There is nothing wrong with cooking for pleasure and nourishment, but compulsion is never healthy.
This week I'm set to go out almost every night with different friends which is, I suspect, a very good thing.