Curing the mean reds

"You know those days when you've got the mean reds?"

"Same as the blues?"

"No," Holly said slowly.  "No, the blues are because you're getting fat or maybe it's been raining too long.   You're sad, that's all.  But the mean reds are horrible.  You're afraid and you sweat like hell, but you don't know what you're afraid of.  Except something bad is going to happen, only you don't know what it is.  You've had that feeling?"

"Quite often.  Some people call it angst."

"All right.  Angst.  But what do you do about it?"

"Well, a drink helps."

"I've tried that...What I've found does the most good is just to get into a taxi and go to Tiffany's.  It calms me down right away, the quietness and the proud look of it; nothing very bad could happen to you there..."

Excerpt from Truman Capote's Breakfast at Tiffany's

These days, the mean reds find me every few days, and, like Holly Golightly, I've tried a slew of ways to fend them off.  To no avail.  After a surprise attack that put me in a tizzy yesterday afternoon, I pulled out my cracked wooden spoon, the recipe books and my apron, and stood in the kitchen for three hours.  The result was ribbons of beautiful homemade semolina fettucini pasta and a deliciously simple tomato gravy, along with crusty toasted bread topped with chunky bruschetta.  It was delicious. So here I am, just another member of the tired, huddled masses starting a blog at the beginning of a new year, a new decade.  About my love of standing in the kitchen after a day of work with my apron and spoon, taking distracted breaks to dance around my apartment to music, and cooking up some supper. 

Clearly, I am no original.  But who is, anyway?  I may not be trying to master the art of French cooking or documenting my way to becoming a fabulous baker, (which, I should say, I will never be.  I live with a wonderful roommate and baker, Beth, and I lack the necessary exactness of such an art).  But I am on a culinary mission to try all things new.  The goal is three hundred things that have never come into being in my kitchen before.  Be they common or exotic, sauces or salads, simple or complex, local or ethnic, - who knows?  All that matters is that, this year, they will be. 

These mean reds can be a tricky and sneaky thing, so I must be aggressive and daring, and fear not the scary new recipe or suggestion!  Yes, my wooden spoon is cracked right down the middle, but it is loved nonetheless.  With it, I hope to prevail.