I am terrible at taking time out of my day to do things I love.  I don’t know exactly what the problem is… its not like I have a shortage of things I love.  I have compiled a life list that allows me to do the things I love, so one would think that I would have even more motivation to do these things, like workout more, write, blog, travel, craft, cook, etc.  My guess is that I just have a really hard time finding a decent work-life balance.  

After working an 10 or 11 hour day, scooping up my boy, running errands, cooking dinner, and getting a load of laundry in, I should feel like it’s time that I do something I want to do.  But most of the time, I end up wasting little 20 minute blocks of time I do get, when my husband is giving the boy a bath, with things like surfing the internet, laying out clothes for tomorrow, etc.

Last night, rather than doing these things, I sat down intentionally with a glass of wine and Van Morrison on Pandora.  One of my life list items is to fill a blank notebook with recipes.  These are recipes that I want to remember.  These recipes are for amazing food that either I or a family member or friend has made.  I am in love with Jamie Oliver’s “Jamie Does…” cookbook.  Combined with my desire to find 5 vegetable dishes that my husband will eat, we tried a variation of his smashed chickpeas last night.  Combined with a broiled salmon that I free-styled, we had a wonderful dinner.  Both were awesome and I wanted to write the recipes down- they are both keepers.

The notebook is red, with a textured cover.  It has an elastic and lined pages.  For the longest time, I collected these recipes in a folder or pinned to my bulletin board.  When I bought the notebook three years ago, I just wanted to have a place to put all the recipes.  I thought briefly about just taping the recipes on their own page, but discarded the idea, because when this notebook gets passed down to my son (or another yet to be conceived child), I want him to see my handwriting.

One day, I am going to die.  If I have done my job right, he will still be alive.  I hope that he is a grown man, with a wife and family.  And I want him to hold this book his hands and touch the lines of cursive script.  I want him to think about the wood-paneled walls of the kitchen in the grey house that we lived in Tallahassee.  I want him to remember the happy occasions when we had smashed chickpeas, corn chowder or Hahn brownies.

I want him to prepare these dishes when he misses me.