Maybe it’s just a phase, or maybe I’m just a bit dumber now, a bit less curious now, and maybe that’s fine, but all I really want to read before bed lately is cookbooks, in which the only things who get murdered are onions as they caramelize, and maybe a chicken, and the only conflict is whether to use a hand or standing mixer, and the only deep, resonate thoughts are GOSH, I SHOULD REALLY CAN SOME PEARS. I want only food lullabies, lists of ingredients. My latest great work of literature bedtime story for chubby mom-babies comes from my favorite southern chef slash working mom hero, Madam Vivian Howard. Granted her cookbooks also have personal essays so it is also a book? But I snacked on this book like some Chex Mix, a little bit day by day then WAIT, WHERE DID IT GO? It focuses on condiments (pickles, preserves, sauces, etc) that you can prep ahead, then she lays out meals that she makes with them. Each condiment bomb elevates the meal to that of Chef, Each chapter gives the reader a task, a thing to make, and I never have to think about the real world again. So this is how I want my words, now (the ones that I’m not responsible for writing, myself.) I WANT TO EAT THEM.

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