yarr, the writing life

It seems two of my favorite food bloggers are focused right now on the economy and sociological history of farm markets. In general, and in particular, they seem to be something of great emotional attachment. I'm still thinking over the Ruhlman-Parsons debate and it will be in my head as I bike down to the FB and sell people coffee and fruit.

{Cause, y'know, when you tell your boss you're going on vacation abruptly and that if your next kitchen job, when you find it, be too demanding you might need to cut back, but you're not quitting, and you know they're in desperate need of barista-types, you end up offering to spend your last free days before vacation working}


Which might explain why I'm going to be lugging half a box of Frog Hollow peaches first on my bicycle this afternoon and then on my cross country flight to Boston. Why I'm going to be biking to the Bi Rite market and, probably the Miette candy store {shocking, I know} to look for local sweets.

How I'm going to protect my peaches on the plane I'm not really sure. Under the seat? In the overhead? Neither seems right. But I want the people I love to taste the bourbony-vanilla Hosui and Al's sweet peaches in the hopes that they can in tasting understand why I am here. To be honest it doesn't hurt that I may as well buy Al's peaches as any other, since I get a great discount.

Crazy FB gossip right now. Dios mio, how food drives us.

I'm still thinking about Ruhlman's prior post, too, in which he says:

It is, literally if you will, the make or break fact of the aspiring writer’s life: you either have or do not have the capacity to maintain a daily writing routine—same time, for the same amount of time, producing roughly the same quantity of words.

I've been slacking lately, what with the job hunting, the working extra shifts, the vacationing with friends in town. I wrote last night and it was hard; it's always hard. It doesn't feel good to write, most of the time, but it feels worse not too and I get a little crazy anyway. All melodramatic and apocalyptic. I'm so jealous of the people in my writer's group who get published with so much more regularity than I do, and I'm still trying to finish up stories from March. I need to write, even if I'm spending all my time in kitchens. And I don't want to be the persons who comes this far and makes as many sacrifices as I've made to get this far, and gives it up to ponder peaches. Nor do I want to give up peaches.