On Wednesday at noon, I submitted the third draft of my manuscript. Working on it the past few weeks, I’ve found myself oddly satisfied in knowing that my promised reward for turning it in would be a massive Thanksgiving feast. It made sense, given that my memoir is as food-focused as I am.
But within seconds of clicking send, I felt my body and mind begin to come down from two weeks of adrenaline. There were a few waves of relief and pride, but mostly, I just felt panic that it was over. And I struggle with transitions.
I began to second-guess the sitting still that I had planned for the day–the magazine reading, TV watching, and general lazing. I just wasn’t ready to have nothing to do. I feared the void left without writing, even though there were millions of moments while doing it when I cursed the profession altogether.
And so, I threw myself into cooking and baking. It has always been a therapeutic process for me. Ten minutes after emailing the draft to my editor with a note that asked, “Should we be concerned that the reader hates the main character (me)?”, I was in my car en route to Dunkin’ Donuts for a large iced coffee, then next door to the supermarket for Thanksgiving pie ingredients.
Between Wednesday evening and 3 o’clock on Thanksgiving, I made:
Ritz Pecan Sausage Stuffing
Brown Sugared Butternut Squash
Whipped Yukon Gold Potatoes
Whole Berry Orange Cranberry Sauce
Cinnamon Apple Pie
Coconut Custard Pie
Cranberry Walnut Pie
The only things I thankfully did not handle were the turkey and the gravy. I should note that I made enough food to feed fifteen adults with leftovers. I should then note that I was only actually feeding six adults.
The food, the cooking, the baking–all of it–delicious. And restorative to my crazy writer’s mind.
Tell me: what was the best thing you ate yesterday?