I ruminated for six days on the contents of this column and came up empty-handed.
I went to bed on it, woke up on it, and still nothing.
I installed the ritual chocolate and black tea (the best combination since Saturday and Sunday) that are my known catalysts for inspiration, then proceeded to eat more than my allotted share of the “Dairy Milk” fruit and nut version with hopes the extra sugar rush would flood the keyboard with ideas.
Still nothing—save a strong urge to make myself throw up.
I was sitting at my desk and “Millie” the cat was nestled on my bed as a chocolate burp erupted from me. She gave me a slit-eyed, flat stare that smacked of “Don’t even think about it, lady. Barfing is my department.”
I’d also just spent the entire weekend alone and while I embraced the change in plans, it was something I hadn’t done in a very, very long time. I half-expected the quiet solitude to raise my writer’s imagination to new levels.
Alas, still nothing.
Even though I was on solo, conversations abounded. I’ve always talked to myself. Even in the local grocery store, I’ve been known to do this—much to the raised eyebrow of the passer-by who catches me talking to the selection of peanut butter.
I never will be bored if stranded alone on a desert island. I know this for sure.
I’ve been known to carry on rather interesting chat sessions on a wide variety of topics with “Yours Truly.” However, the conversations I engaged in this past weekend mostly were with inanimate objects like the hammer that slammed into my thumb during a repair job on the plastic covering my screen porch, and the electrical outlet in the garage that I couldn’t find in the dark when I tried to plug in my Christmas lights.
Some of that frank discussion was censored material that shall not be repeated here.
Sometimes if I leave the writing table and mess around on a mundane task, the ignition on my imagination will light up. So this time I pulled out my recipe drawer and started sorting.
Evidently I’m a pack rat. One hour later and none the word wiser, I had a bigger pile of useless, undeniably unappealing recipes on the floor for garbage than what remained in the drawer.
I rolled my eyes and shoved my hand into a baggie that contained assorted and yellowing newspaper cut-outs of recipes. I’d had that little collection for at least eight years.
It had been given to me. I’d thrown the baggie in the drawer and never looked inside—until now.
I pulled one out.
“Writer’s Block Cookies,” I said, reading what was printed at the top of the 4”x2” snippet. I laughed out loud and then stared blankly at the unquestionable moment that had just aligned itself with me.
Food for thought is the recipe I share (true story by the way).
Writer’s Block Cookies
1 cup butter, softened
1.5 cups dark brown sugar
2 tsp vanilla
2 tsp water
2 cups flour
1 tsp baking soda
1 tsp baking powder
½ tsp salt
2 tsp cinnamon
¼ tsp ground cloves
½ tsp allspice
2 cups rolled oats
1-2 cups raisins
Preheat oven to 350 F.
Cream butter until light and fluffy. Gradually add sugar. Add eggs, vanilla, and water and beat until smooth.
Sift dry ingredients together. Add to the butter mixture and mix well. Fold in oats and raisins.
Drop by spoonfuls onto a greased cookie sheet, leaving enough space for the cookies to spread out.
Bake eight-10 minutes, until golden.
Makes two dozen large cookies
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