Earlier I baked cinnamon buns🍞 It has been more than a year I think.

I used to bake something new every week, learning desserts and goods from different cultures, always trying something new and adjusting it to be healthier.

I also baked and cooked for loved ones during special occasions , community events, weddings and the like.

Today, I found myself reflecting on why I stopped cooking and baking as much as I used to. It was an adventure for me. It was enjoyable and fulfilling. A taste of somewhere else. An occasion to see joy in people's faces as they try something for the first time.

Looking back, I realized that my declining motivation began when my mother’s health worsened.

I made her special desserts suitable for diabetes and her medical conditions, knowing how much she loved sweets. But I would always find her giving in to sugary and processed products. Over time, I felt that my efforts were wasted, and I began to associate cooking in general with her illness and helplessness. And I felt and I still do feel lot of dreadful sorrow when I want to cook.

Growing up neglected, I have always struggled to commit to three meals a day anyway. And growing in such extreme circumstances, I have sometimes, partly at least, felt that eating is such an ugly process even when you honor the lives you are consuming, even when you use the energy to achieve good things.

But more does burden it seems. I look at my meal, at the picture too, and I think of starving children. It is hard not to think of the pain of starvation eating you from the inside out. And maybe it is unhealthy but I am thinking it, and I had to type it somewhere unfortunately for anyone who bothers to read.

Ahh

Eat. Cook. Take a picture.