This evening, I was struck by the sudden desire to mix, meld, cream and weigh. I thought about the hurriedly ripening bananas on my counter that usually make the base of my breakfast smoothies, and for the first time in a long, long time, I wanted to bake.
While the humble banana loaf isn’t a particularly outstanding bit of culinary work, it means something. It means, to me, that I’ve remembered baking.
Depression is a weird monster. It hoovers up the things you like so efficiently that you pretty much forget you even liked it in the first place. While my love of books persisted throughout, my love of baking just starved away into nothingness. I forgot that I would spend most weekends working out what I would make – whether it would be something new and exciting like challah bread, or perfecting my lavender earl grey cupcakes. Oh how I’ve missed those cupcakes.
I feel like someone just flicked a switch on in my brain, and all circuits are go. Long may it continue.