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IT’S A MESS when strange events smack into the windscreen of a resolutely rational mind.
Baking, by contrast, was solving the same problem over and over again, because every time, the solution was consumed. I mean, really: chewed and digested. Thus, the problem was ongoing.
I have come to believe that food is history of the deepest kind. Everything we eat tells a tale of ingenuity and creation, domination and injustice—and does so more vividly than any other artifact, any other medium.
A sense of recognition circled the runway, came in to land:
felt the disorientation of a generous offer that in no way lines up with anything you want to do:
