Playboy: Do you confess to having lived?
Bolaño: I’m still alive, I’m still reading, I’m still writing and watching movies, and as Arturo Prat said to the sailors of the Esmeralda before their last stand, so long as I live, this flag will fly.

And then I breathe a little more loosely, because alive as defined “reading, writing, and watching movies” is validation.

This difference is in tune with the most recent issue of Lucky Peach, which I’ve been reading this weekend: “The Cooks and Chefs Issue.” There are a couple of pieces on the Food Network and its shift from having chefs like Batali to cooks like Ina and Giada. Though Ad Hoc at Home is full of ostensibly simple recipes, Keller also can make you feel a bit foolish if you don’t have two bowls for your KitchenAid. You will never feel that way going through Isa Chandra and Terry Romero’s cookbooks; they will anticipate any blushes of foolishness and swipe at them with a witty parenthetical. (It helps that vegan baking never requires the folding of a delicate meringue into cake batter, but the principle stands.) There’s also the anticipation of labor after the fact: the chef’s recipes will be intense without an eye toward the towering pile of dishes, and the cook’s will recognize it and do its best to alleviate it.

Neither approach is better. Each has its place. It’s funny to me that every Legitimate Chef I’ve read talk about the Food Network has the utmost respect for Ina Garten, the Barefoot Contessa, whose show was a fixture in my house growing up and whose cooking most closely resembles my mother’s. But that’s not how most people have lived.

And I’ve been lucky enough to have lived a good food life, even when everything else was shit. My grandma died when I was five, but I have vivid recollections of lamb chops and strawberries dipped in sugar. There is a picture of her sitting on the couch reading a cookbook that immediately came to my mind when I did the same a couple of months ago, connecting me back to something I had spent some time rejecting. My mother’s David Eyre pancakes and empanadas and everything defined happiness in a not-always-happy home. When my parents’ marriage began to truly fall apart, it was marked by the decline of dinner—mashed potatoes began coming from a box before they disappeared altogether. This is why I’ll often say it depresses me to eat some combination of food or at certain restaurants. I’m not being dramatic (maybe a little); I just want to eat food that feels real and cared for.

When I was a teenager I would say I’d secretly like to be a pastry chef, as though it were already determined I couldn’t be. Vocational school seemed out of the question. Of course I used the high-falutin term instead of shooting for “baker.” Now that’s all I care to be, though I’ll take influence and recipes from chefs and cooks alike, because the goal is just to get some rich chocolate clouds of comfort and joy, stuff that makes happiness in the midst of misery, no matter how many dishes I need to do. (And of course, my boyfriend refuses to consume tofu.)

7 a.m.: regular Wednesday morning yoga class. Teacher told me I look like I’m “shrinking,” and made hand motions to note that it was in girth and not in height.
9:30 a.m.: eating my usual oatmeal at the table. Savoring it. Scott asks me if I want my gift, and I warily say yes, even though he was going about it in a way that was making me nervous. Anyway, we’re going to DisneyWorld next weekend. Seriously. I’ve been pining for a ride on Space Mountain for the last few years in a really immature, spoiled, unbecoming way. And now I get to go. Look at what behavior pays off in this world.
10 a.m.: go to the nail salon and get a gray mani-pedi. Looks sick. Feel awesome.
12 p.m.: get in the car to take my favorite drive down 25A to Port Jeff to eat at Tiger Lily Café. Enjoy a sesame tofu wrap. Walk around the town. On my way back, stop in Stony Brook Village to check out a fair trade store. Decide Scott would be upset if I brought a giant wooden bowl into our already overstuffed kitchen and buy nothing.
4 p.m.: walk over to Cinema Arts Centre with my friend Kyle to see the new Almodóvar, The Skin I Live In, for the second time this week. It’s really freaking enjoyable. Kyle needed to see it. It only cost $11 to see it twice because being a CAC member rules.
6:30 p.m.: go to Sapsuckers and get a veggie burger (no bun, no cheese—hello). It’s made with fresh vegetables and hummus; it’s not some prefab patty. Devour it, their fabulous fries, and two iced teas.
7:30 p.m.: Herrell’s Ice Cream for one scoop peanut butter No-Moo and one scoop chocolate No-Moo. At the last minute I tell him to throw some pecans on it. It’s good.

Then we caught up on some HBO shows and I went to bed early. AWESOME!

These are the best things from my Facebook wall:

During some recent domestic squabble with Scott about cooking, I said something about how in the last few years I’ve had to graduate from college, develop a career, and deal with my parents’ divorce—I hadn’t had a lot of time or space to get into cooking, so I’m sorry if my late blooming in that department somehow makes my new interest less authentic. I tend to place smaller issues on perhaps a grander stage than they’re worth, but this was an epiphany for me: I really have had a lot to deal with in the last four years. It’s only in the last one that I’ve settled into myself.

I feel like I’ve been rewired. It’s thanks to yoga. I’m not perfect and have had my share of meltdowns since starting to practice seriously a little over a year ago, but they don’t linger and I’m able to see and accept them for what they are. I’ve recently started to meditate, which has opened up more for me. I’ve also decided to start eating completely vegan. Though I’ve dabbled for a while and eat mainly whole grains and vegetables anyway, I want to be really committed to it, for health and sustainability.

I’ve let go of all expectations for myself and my life. It’s happening; it’s happening right; I’m approaching it all with love and joy. No effort is wasted. When I’m not obsessed with the results of writing, I can actually write. When I’m not eating shitty food, I’m not obsessing over my body. I’ve never felt better, and I’m excited to carry this forward.