Blogging is a funny thing, really. I like doing it, and it landed me a magazine writing job (which is also mostly fun) but I never quite get around to doing most of the requisite things that others do to boost traffic: getting all up in the MyFace and TwitSpace and BoobTube with quick ubiquity, and commenting far and wide like a tweaker cheerleader suffering from simultaneous Prader-Willi and exclamation point-specific Tourette’s syndromes. And God knows I detest banner ads, so this is not in danger of earning me beer money any time soon. (Have you seen the new purple Bar Of Death™ that lurches up the screen to occlude the text you might wish to read, requiring you to click it away? Whoever invented that should be waterboarded.)
And so I’m still trying to figure out why I spend so much time trying to take a decent picture of the food I cook and then write interestingly about it for a bunch of strangers.
But then a show intervenes, and I go away for a week, busting my ass to get it all just so, and schmooze, and deal with all the ancillary details, and only have a few minutes in which to even think about all this, and maybe snap a picture of a particularly good meal or bottle that happened on the trip. And maybe a phrase or two will unfurl and get filed away for use when I’m back in front of my very own computer. And I’m OK with it; this is a hobby, and that’s enough. I’m happy.
But then, say, I’ll find myself at Alinea, and Grant Achatz has come up to say hello, and he’s composing our dessert right on our table while we chat, and then I realize that it’s a little more than that.
You can read all about it in a couple of days when I get to writing.