I’ve come to appreciate that crafting a tasty meal doesn’t mean as much if it’s consumed by only the cook and no one else. 

The effort isn’t as satisfying when leaning against the kitchen counter and eating it out of the pot it was cooked in. Using a plate doesn’t add that much to the ambiance. The whining, begging pet at your feet may count as a companion, but is a far cry from a dinner guest. Face it, the drooling mongrel would devour anything short of cardboard, and consider it a feast. I’m not looking for praise, although it’s nice to hear, but there’s something worth the energy when your cooking gets them off the couch, lifts their noses from their cell phones, or prompts a friend to slip shoes on and drive over.

Self-publishing your first novel is like inviting the in-laws to your first Thanksgiving-cooked dinner — only worse. Mashing potatoes like a pro didn’t prepare me for baking my first turkey any more than my website blogs have prepared me for my first novel release. I was realistic when I created the website and posted some of my favorite pieces. My visitors would be few and those that did show up, would be kind. I knew where most of them lived. But self-publishing a first novel is so, so different. I’ve put more blood, sweat and energy into it than all the combined holiday meals one can squeeze into a lifetime.

But it’s time to stop eating alone in my kitchen. I’ve psyched myself up and I’m ready to send out scores of invitations, as scary as it is. We all have fear of throwing a party and no one comes. I’ll treat it like a perpetual Open House. Leave the door open for anyone who wants to steer up my walk and take a peek in the door. I might get a few stragglers dropping by, others over time, but in the end appreciate serving someone a scrumptious meal of my own creation.

There’s a reason I recently traveled from a temperate, pleasant environment to a hell-couldn’t-be-hotter location. Family.

Getting on an airplane with the outside temperature is at a lovely 76 degrees and stepping off to a blast of 108 degrees is a shock to anyone’s system. To be fair, every place you go is air conditioned. You lose count of the backyard swimming pools on your plane’s decent! Comforts are boundless, well, except for parking lot cars. To get inside a vehicle with closed windows baking in the sun for longer than five minutes is not for the weak. Especially when you keep in mind that you have exposed thighs thanks to shorts being the only garment of choice at that time of year. Needless to say, after a wonderful and swimming pool-filled week, I looked forward to returning home to my twenty-degree cooler lifestyle.

Murphy broke into my home in my absence. I stepped into a hot, muggy house. Snickers sauntered up to greet me with a “don’t even think about snuggling” attitude and too parched to waste her breath to bark in protest. I checked the air conditioner. The motor hummed, the fan blew, but no cool air rose from the vents. I checked circuits just to cover all tracks and I focused on batteries in the thermostat, cotton clogging the outside unit, anything to explain the absence of comfort. Nothing was out of sync.

With a week of 90+ degrees and suffering from allergies my attic fan sucked in every night, I broke down and called the recommended source to make a house call I couldn’t afford. Unable to come for a few more days, he ran over a list of what to check. My self confidence soared as his list confirmed my own known remedies. That is, until he asked if I checked my furnace filter. Murphy’s snicker rang in my head. I rushed home, pulled out a blacker-than-the-inside-of-my-chimney filter and exchanged it with one from the unopened, dusty pack nearby.

Cool air blew and my adrenaline-relieved energy had me dancing around the house. Murphy reluctantly supplied the music.