A feeding rut

In the space of six months my world has changed in big and little ways. Relocating back to Sydney and starting work have been among the bigger changes whilst forgoing my beloved café in Oxford, for example, is one of the more minor adjustments. Though it's something I still miss terribly. Not because I can't track down a decent coffee here – quality caffeine abounds - but because there is no exact substitute for the friends and free time with which I frequented it. Once my domain, free time with friends is now a rarity.

But I've digressed, sorry! Somewhere in the middle of all that's changed, something has transpired that I wasn't expecting. I've developed a reluctance to cook. My love for food hasn't dwindled but my love for preparing it has vanished. This is unusual because although I'm no cordon bleur chef and wouldn't survive an audition on MasterChef Kids, cooking is one of my favourite pastimes. And this was especially true while we lived in England. Until I started blogging, cooking was as close to a hobby as I had in Oxford. Unless drinking coffee and discussing the Royal Wedding counts?

I loved picking out different meals, planning the week's menu, doing the shop and then preparing each of the dishes. I loved having friends over to try new dishes on. It never felt like a chore because I genuinely liked doing it. At this point you might be thinking I had too much time on my hands. Which is true. But as anyone with lots of free time will tell you, any diversion which provides enjoyment, entertainment AND nourishment, is the holy grail. So I indulged myself and counted cooking as my creative outlet. Mr G would have to wrangle with me to get the kitchen for even one night a week*.

A few beloved recipe books were on constant rotation on my bedside table for a nightly flip through. I had a subscription to Delicious. magazine which I treasured and devoured every month. I bookmarked foodie blogs which I visited often, as much for mid-week meal inspiration as entertaining. I remember thinking cooking was such a good thing to enjoy. Given the frequency at which mealtimes pop around I figured deriving more pleasure than punish from the task was positive. And clichéd as it is, feeding friends and family IS fulfilling and lovely. So I happily fed my family and friends and revelled in doing it.

Now? I don't even know who that crazy woman is. She's nowhere to be found. I'd rather eat the same dish six nights a week than venture anywhere near my pile of well-worn-and-now-forgotten cookbooks and experiment with a new recipe. Let alone compile a shopping list which requires additional research. Which is why I eat spaghetti bolognese as regularly as some people eat weetbix, because I know the ingredients off by heart**. As for feeding friends, I'm embarrassed to say that ordering takeaway has become de rigueur when we, um, 'entertain' friends.

I expected to lose interest in all things culinary when I had Miss I but, give or take the foggy first few weeks, I didn't. Cooking remained a passion. I dearly hope it returns soon. Because I have to admit spag bol is beginning to grate.

*It's only fair that I add that I now wrangle Mr G into the kitchen every weekend to prepare as many meals for the week as he possibly can in a few hours. 

**The other reason is spaghetti bolognese is freezes beautifully. Freezing meals requires less cooking and less washing up.