SOMETIMES you just have to throw everything into the cupboard. The flour, the chickpeas, the cookies. You just toss them in there and close the door. Sometimes your kids are fighting or you see a marker without a cap right between the dog and the only good sofa, so you don’t have time to systematically open the shopping bags. Sometimes you just have to improvise. These are words I never say to my clients. I truly believe in sensible food storage according to use. Are you going to bake? Make snacks? Eat breakfast? But in recent years, I realize that I do all these things at once. In dirty sweatpants. I’ve started to believe that glass jars with labels aren’t enough to contain the mess of my life. It’s no secret that I’ve gotten pretty stuck. I feel like I’m going in circles, like a plane trying to land in the fog. I’m here, but I’m not here. I’m married, but I’m not. Instagram thinks I should engage in serious self-care to start living the best version of my life again. They’re obsessed with my cortisol levels and the depth of my meditation, but I’m sure that for this job, it takes something bigger than the magnesium foot bath they’ve been advertising to me all week.
