Am prone to manic depression. Wonder of wonders. Who knew? I didn't, and it's still not easy for me to admit that I cannot be one of those eternally happy, sunshiny people who inspire you to not be so serious, look at the brighter side of things, smile through bad phases and always be cheerful like a stoned clown.

However, thankfully - I also know what sort of gets me through during those spells of manic depression.

Cooking.

Wonder of wonders. Who knew? I didn't.

Mom would be so proud. Especially since she'd never notice the depression - only the cooking. In her world, people don't get depressed. People just get married and get on with life, for what else is there to do. She doesn't know a thing about depression. Not mine, not her own.

Anyway. So why do I enjoy cooking so much? I think it's because it puts me back in control of the outcome one hundred percent. I don't reduce that flame and forget to/ refuse to stir - and there go the mushrooms. Burnt to a cinder. I fold the cake batter just right - lightly, lovingly and slowly with my hand, and bake it at 200 degrees for 40 minutes - and out comes the softest, spongiest sponge cake in the world. Delectable as hell, but also bloody predictable.

The garlic pods, the carrots, the chicken - all at my mercy.

The flavors - as I desire.

The textures, the aroma, the look - as I arrange.

Everything as I manipulate.

Sometimes I deliberately let a batch of cookies burn a bit. Sometimes I overcook the pasta. Other times, I decide that the family must have a feast.

Every so often these days - I cook.