I'm stressed. You only have to enter my house to know that. The smells of barbeque chicken in the crockpot are enough to make even a vegetarian salivate. I can't help myself. I cook when I'm stressed. I don't eat though, so my family will have to take care of that part of the equation.

I have a second crockpot filled with root veges and I'm peeling potatoes for a vat of mashed (those I WILL eat).


I picked a bushel of apples with my daughter this morning that will become numerous canned jars of applesauce, a couple pies, and an apple cake. I have pie pumpkins that look adorable on my windowsill, but which will not escape my wrath as I seek to chop, squish, and puree the life out of as many foods as possible today.

And I'm planning a pork loin for tomorrow, which I will begin by marinading today.

Then there's the ice cream. I love making ice cream, but when I'm stressed I especially like it. Of course the electric whirring of the blade isn't nearly as satisfying as the hand crank I get to help with when visiting friends at their camp north of the lakes region.

I'm brewing ginger green tea. Three pots. And coffee, but I'll drink that as I work. And I noticed there might some more broccoli to harvest. Maybe I'll make a wholewheat pizza with that and my spices that are overgrowing the garden beds this time of year.

Of course, no stress-induced cooking would be complete without a chocolate yummy or two. And my ricer is available; perhaps I'll cook up a batch of brown rice for rice pudding later in the weekend. Or I could pair it with the frozen shrimp I've been saving for a special occasion (I think this counts).

Did I mention I'm stressed? I hope to be exhausted later. Otherwise I may be cooking long after the sun goes down.