Can you believe it?
It finally happened.
I’ve always spoken about it, and feared I’d never see it.
But look—here we are.
Isolated, and in absolute bliss.
Love has kept me in its arms.
Cooking, my new hobby.
Such joy in the kitchen.
I don’t measure.
Mistakes are abundant, but I keep learning…
“The dough must sound like this—it must give back just like this when you poke it.“
Oh, but you know, love is like this too—supple, pliable, a dough, baked and devoured, perfecting the recipe for it, each time better, sometimes sweet and sometimes savory , sometimes sour and sometimes violent.
It’s been raining for days now.
An appropriate ablution.
The city is restless for interaction.
No one can sit in the silence of this rest, no one breathes and severs ties with the idea of immunity.
This is molasses for a town on fast-forward.
It is a day—Monday—but every day feels the same lately.
This way of dealing, with rising dough and rising numbers helps ease me into sleep.
I’ve cooked my way to calm.