Today I came home from work and got really excited about making things. I started making baked oatmeal because our last few pieces went moldy. Then I thought, I'll just tackle that stupid fifth pumpkin that's been taking up half our shelf all year. Then I realized I don't have anything to take to work for breakfast tomorrow, so I make chocolate chip scones.
Why is it that I can't come home from work and be that motivated to go draw or do artwork?
Well, the kitchen is my favorite room of most houses. Granted, ours has NOT ENOUGH counter space, it's tiny, but it gets great afternoon light, it's far from the TV, and it's a radically different environment than I've been in for the rest of the day. And kitchen time is "me" time. I claim it as necessary and good time to take care of myself, to take my time and reflect, to make something delicious to feed my body with (and Greg, too). It somehow suits both my contemplative needs, my need to stake a claim to home somewhere, and my achiever needs (I tell you, I get stuff DONE in the kitchen. Except dishes).
Also it smells good when I have been baking, and I do not have to walk so far to get a snack! It is basically the perfect situation.
So I decided, why fight it? The kitchen is my best room. I'ma just draw out here. So I lugged all my stuff into the kitchen and spread out on the floor and started working with some music and some pumpkin bread with cream cheese on top.
Perfect.
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