Making my grocery list last night, I thought, "Spinach dip sounds good right about now." I already have the seasoning mix because they were on sale last time I got this craving. To my list, I added cottage cheese (because I saw a food creator use this as a sub for sour cream in a dip, and it's brilliant) (UPDATE: I remembered which creator! Kylie Sakaida), frozen spinach, and French bread.

Obviously, when I make this for myself, I don't bother with a boule, cut and cubed, dip presented in a bread bowl—though, maybe I should. Eating that soggy bread that's soaked up all the dip the next day is low key the best part.

Then this morning, as I filled my crockpot with rice, tofu cubes, coconut milk, and curry powder, I thought, "Wait a minute, I can bake my own bread."

My life is so far removed from the summer of 2020, when I was baking loaves and selling sourdough starter at my local farmers market. I've lost a lot of my love for cooking, baking, and most tragically, eating. I've been thinking a lot recently about how I can systematize the process because my chronic illness just doesn't leave me with enough energy to prepare even the most basic meal. It's 9:26am, and I've had coffee, but not breakfast because I don't know what I should eat. Maybe the potato salad I made on Saturday?

Speaking of ingredient substitutes, I had some plain yoghurt that needed to be used up, so I figured it would work in place of the mayonnaise I didn't have. And it does, it's fine, but it's just so far away from the classic potato salad I was craving that it's taking me longer than usually to finish eating it. It's just not what I wanted.

I could make oatmeal. It's easy; I have peanut butter and apples. I could, but I don't want to. I don't want anything. Except spinach dip, I guess, so at least I have that to look forward to tonight.