here’s what today feels like.

You’re on one of those cooking competition shows and the judges are explaining the contest rules and you’re trying to write down their instructions on a moleskin while simultaneously ransacking the cupboards for things you sort of remember hearing about.

you’re pretty sure you hear them say something about tuna bruschetta, which stops your brain from processing new information because you thought bruschetta was defined by being made out of tomatoes. So you’re wondering if the tuna replaces the tomatoes or is added in addition, then you realize you’ve been zoned out for 4 minutes and missed the rest of the appetizer instructions.

you wince when they start talking about a something that you think is a kind of Sushi because you’ve been putting off learning to make Sushi. Sushi seems like a lot of work for something you need to eat 400 of to feel full. You open the fridge and realize you don’t even have any fish so you’ll have to go all the way to the store and get some. which is gonna set you back hours.

but whatever, one problem at a time. you remain optimistic despite the ever growing list of grocery stores crowding the pages of your notebook.

then they say something about biscuits! yay biscuits! you’re so on board with the biscuits. Flour, water. salt maybe? check! sounds easy. Then you ask if they want it with butter and they look at you like you’re an idiot.  There’s an awkwardly long silence and you finally realize the since the head judge is British and he’s probably talking about something you think of more as a cookie. So you quietly climb down off the counter where you’d been reaching for the flour, dejected.

Sometimes you write ingredients, sometimes websites where you remember a good recipe and others you just write down what they say verbatim and hope its something you can google later.

After a while the judges leave and you’re standing alone in the kitchen, arms wrapped around boxes of pastas and bags of produce, moleskin in between your teeth, instruction manual for the oven under one arm, cutting board under the other.

You throw everything onto the counter and a pear, a box of figs and a bottle of syrup go rolling off and settle under the fridge, forgotten.

but you’ve got an old photo of a family sitting down to a beautiful thanksgiving dinner, so you tape it to the wall, put Daft Punk on the Sonos and sigh, knowing you won’t be eating until long after dinner is over.