high-bar baking

The kind of night where Olivia Rodrigo songs come up as you shuffle through your Spotify Daylist and you don’t skip them. I bet the Germans have a word for that. That’s what I love about the Germans. Between them and the Japanese, the world has a word for everything.   

The kind of night where you prune your basil plant but have nothing to make with the leaves. Where you repeat the same recipe you’ve been making for a few weeks, because you need sustenance but lack enthusiasm. Where the love of your best friend’s life gets engaged to some other girl.

You know, that kind of night. 

The kind of night where you tell yourself you won’t, but you pull an Oatmeal Scotchie out of the freezer because you need it. But you don’t pull a second, because your friend made you promise. Some people still care.

And food gets made, and hair gets washed, and life goes on. Because I’m allergic to the word “fair.” I was raised that way. 

Things are much easier when you stop expecting them to be fair. Or just. Or even sorta reasonable. 

It’s easy, after all. Easy as life.