Back in the day, somewhere between 1996 and 1998, I made a lot of soap. Hundreds of pounds of soap. Truckloads. Some good, some bad, and some really effing awful. One thing I remember best about those days was the single-minded passion -- I couldn't wait to get home to create what I'd dreamed up during the day at work. While I answered phone calls from insurance investigators requesting medical and legal records on a client, half my brain was formulating the next big soap idea. I always felt like I was just toeing my way in the door of this wonderful art form, not all the way quite in it, just standing outside, looking through the cracks in the doorway because my time was split between work and family and my passion for soap making . . . I also remember listening to lots of Dave Matthews (to this day, certain songs take me right back to my poorly lit garage and the three, yes, three! picnic tables covered with drying soap), and the dizzy, loopy, even high feeling of being in a room with no ventilation surrounded by the cloying scent of a hundred different essential oils. My niece Leah and I would work tirelessly in the garage, mixing, pouring, cutting, stacking, all the while laughing like cackling hens because one, we were exhausted, and two, we were punch drunk on fumes!
Those were the days.