Yesterday, I was cooking up a recipe for albóndingas soup (pictured) for my column in Clean Eating magazine. I was putting the finishing touches on the story to go with the recipe. I was photographing the recipe, and being pleased with the results. I was doing laundry, in preparation for my trip to Rancho La Puerta on Saturday, to be their visiting cooking teacher for the week. And I was getting excited about all the amazing exercise, food, and natural beauty I’ll be enjoying down there.
All of what I was doing was work, you understand. And it hit me. I have a good job.
There’s lots of moaning and bitching these days in the food and writing worlds about the demise of the publishing industry and the fascination with celebrity cheffing. About the challenges of freelancing. Bitching in which I’ve been known to partake.
But you know, there’s always something to bitch about, and it’s such a grease slide to go there. It takes real effort and conscientiousness to do otherwise.
So it’s especially nice when the planets align such that one happens to look up for a sec and appreciate.
I have a good job.
