Simply Sinful Delight

Dear You,
Admist the chaos echoed throughtout my living room from the news, I sit on the far corner of my couch and type away. I am busy creating a Recipe Inventory, a sort of catalog of all the recipes I have collected over a three-year span.
Some people like to paint, others like to write, some still like to sew. I enjoy all of these hobbies, but everything pales in comparison to Cooking. It's silly, almost, how Cooking and I fell in love. It was sudden, unexpected- Cinderella meets Prince Charming, only more passionate. One day, I was in the kitchen, and I opened the cupboard. My mother and I were going to bake bread, and I was intent on helping her as much as I could. While she prepared some sourdough, I experimented boldly. Into my uncertain dough I mixed sweet spices, and powdered my creation with melted butter and cinnamon-sugar. I put it in the oven, this first creation all my own, and soon a heavenly scent was in the air. Every ten minutes I would glaze the top in my butter-spice concoction, until it was beautifully golden inside and the crust a rich, buttery brown. Steam rose from my freestyled Danish as I pulled it apart, tasting a small pinch of what I had made. And I knew-this was something I was in love with.
Once I got married, I bloomed into a true, natural chef. I enjoyed reading endless cookbooks and experimenting with flavors. I became an advid collector of unique cookbooks, usually forgotten ones full of surprises. Sometimes, while shopping for groceries, I can see how each potential ingredient will blend, flavors melding together lusiously. I love how recipes sound, melodic and sincere... Melon-Apple Chutney & Jenshan Chicken with Silver Noodle Tea.
I love how cooking can take me anywhere, better than any man's promise. I can be like Aladdin on his magic carpet, visting hidden corners of the world, and expanding my cuisine to encompass many exotic flavors from far-off places and cultures unknown. Cooking is timeless; I can cook Grandma's recipes or I can learn the skills of the ancients. When I have a child, she will cook with me, and when I'm old I can cook for the future. I can ask, who are you? Who were you? Where did you go and what have you to tell me? What is your story? Food quietly answers me, engaging my interests and hinting at glimpses of memories from past-lives. I wonder, this rice that I eat, who grew it? This chicken I prepare, where did you come from? I imagine someone far away, perhaps a lot like me, wondering the same things while lovingly wrapping tamales in tenderized corn husks. Cooking is a language all its own, accessible only to those who are whole-heartedly willing to listen. There should be a planet called Cooking, but maybe there already is. It's a place where age has no bearing, time is forgotten, and warm sunshine keeps the kitchen golden all day long.