I spent a great deal of time on the weekend cooking. I do this from time to time; a cooking marathon where I spend hours and hours (and hours) in the kitchen, pottering about, stirring multiple pots on the stove, singing along to whatever music I’ve got on, ending up covered in flour or flicked pasta sauce. I’m sure many people I know think I’m absolutely insane. The fact that they are right is completely beside the point.

I love to cook. I love to eat as well (anyone who’s spent more than about four hours in my presence will attest to this), but cooking is just such fun. And it’s calming for me. I spend so much of my time filling in every second, rushing from one thing to the next, pulse just a little higher than it should be, stress levels slightly higher still. I like that. I like to be busy. But cooking gives me something to do with my time that forces me to slow down.

While I’m kneading pizza dough I’m thinking. Sometimes I’m thinking about whatever it is that I’m writing, sometimes I’m navel-gazing or working through some decision I need to make, or imagining something silly like what a great singer I’d make for the band I’m listening to.

And then I test the results on those lovely people in my writers’ group.  And they give me constructive feedback.