I'm not sure all this cooking is good for me. I'm not talking about my liberal attitude towards butter, sugar, oil, anything fatty or high calorie. I could care less if it adds to my love handles. Love me more then. But spending an entire afternoon perfecting old fashioned sea foam candy, listening to Nicaraguan folklore music, that suggests neurosis. I'm not sure if all the years slaving to the man is the culprit, or if it's simply in my genes to act this way. But sometimes, I can't stop. I have all the time in the world and yet not enough of it. I've taken to practicing yoga for twenty (if I can manage it that long) minutes, several mornings of the week. The calm that prevails after these sessions lasts for about the amount of time I spent doing it (extra if I hold the headstand longer). If I don't feel exhausted, something is amiss. Must stand longer over the stove, bake more, preserve more, grow more, pick more. It's type A liberal hipster hell here on Minnow Creek Lane. It shouldn't happen; and yet it does. Perhaps, in a more positive spin, I simply need to create. As a childless 30-something year old, spare me your psychological interpretations. You just wait and see; a baby isn't going to change much here except for diapers and homemade baby food.