Dear Food Bloggers
So, Little Miss Muse is off pouting in the corner, a purple tizzy haze hoovers over her curly hair. She’s ticked because I’m not taking her on that grand adventure I promised.
Because, for heaven’s sake, I need to get some meals prepped. So I can free up the writing time to do the adventure. And not have to think about menus. And prepping.
If you don’t know who my Little Miss is, check this out. She’s quite a character.
If you don’t understand what I’m about to say, check this out where l explain my hate/hate relationship with all things culinary.
And now I shall relate another irritable cooking irk for the record:
Dear Food Bloggers, for the sake of us who are just trying to survive, please stop cluttering your pages. And for the love of all things food and nutrition, please post the blasted recipe at the TOP of your blog.
I’m talking to those wonderful people who can look inside a fridge with three ingredients and come up with a five-course meal. My Gma was like that. I am not. I can see a full fridge and think we need groceries.
And I’m grateful these experts and kitchen-dwellers post their recipes for dummies like me online. But here’s my exacerbating process:
Search Pinterest for something easy to prep, cook, and do in bulk so I can get out of the kitchen.
Click through to a foodie/cook/chef/mom-gone-rogue blog page and try to find a recipe.
I’m greeted with a gorgeous professional photo of, let’s say, beef stroganoff.
And then another photo. Of the ingredients. Okay.
Then of two ingredients in a bowl. And on and on. And verbiage and perfectly delicious paragraphs about the funny thing their partner did while they were cooking, or that their dog ran through with muddy paws at step 24 and the cook needed to stop and clean the floor.
Then, step by step by step she goes on, and by the time I’ve declined signing up for the newsletter on four different pop-up screens, I’ve forgotten step one.
Okay, where’s the list? The instructions? The printable, concise recipe?
So I scroll three miles further, and accidentally click on an affiliate link. It takes me to Amazon to by this person’s favorite $692 blender. I did not know one needed such a fine piece of machinery to cook beef stroganoff. But, I’m no expert.
Click the back arrow.
The page reloads the hi-res photos. AGAIN.
Finally find the bottom. The final photo. Then I click on the print recipe button but apparently not ALL the photos had loaded yet, and in that latent period, my mouse, instead of hovering over the printer icon, now hovers over the… Labor Day Paint Sale at the local hardware store link and I’m off the page. Again.
Now, I know good and well one does not need paint to cook beef stroganoff. However, I also know, from experience, that I may need to repaint after I cook beef stroganoff. IF I CAN EVER FIND THE RECIPE!!!
Try one more time, because now I’ve invested too much time to give up without one more round in the ring…
I find the printer icon and pause, making sure the entire 234,084-megabyte blog page has loaded.
Watch the little load icon twirl and twirl.
And while we wait for that process, I know what you’re thinking. I’m some echo terrorist. Wasting ink and killing trees to print out my foolish recipes on when I could just use the screen it’s displayed on now.
I’ll direct you to the link above again. I am not a safe person in the kitchen. Sure, I could display the recipe on my laptop or iPad and put it on the counter. Where I’ll splash/slop/set fire to my expensive electronic gadget rather than a simple sheet of paper. Paper which I’ll keep forever if the recipe works out for me. (You should see my paper the breakfast bubble-up casserole is printed on.
Twelve eggs, cheese-something and a brown, ruffled corner from being too close to the stove.) Now imagine If I’d used my laptop…
The printer icon is still twirling.
I look over to the corner. At Little Miss. She’s still twirling, purple sparks dancing from her eyes. She’s about to leave and take her creative juice boxes with her. Straws and all.
I look back to the screen: Cannot connect to the content at this time. That’s the message I get for all the hard work and time spent on Miss Cook’s beloved recipe blog.
I unplug the laptop and toss it into my carry-all. In goes a highlighter, my favorite fine-tipped ink pen, and my yellow legal pad. I nod for Little Miss. She grins big, more sparks and glitter fly. “Save some of that for later. We’re gonna need it,” I say. She hops in the bag.
I drive to the library where I and Little Miss string some words together. And when I need to stretch, I start a pile. Of cookbooks.
Pages with stains and ruffles and waves from other kindred spirits who’ve slopped and dropped and burnt their attempts. But with no affiliate links or sign-up pages. Good-old-fashioned, tree-killing cookbooks that I likely I won’t read, but I check them out, nonetheless.
We string some more words together. Satisfied and off for her nap, I pack up Little Miss and my toys and tomes and head for the Mexican restaurant. Where my good friend there doesn’t judge me and hands me a hot meal I didn’t’ have to cook (saving me thousands of dollars in blenders and paint supplies) in a bad-for-us-all Styrofoam take-out box.
“See you tomorrow,” he says with a smile.
He probably will.