My pasta is shaped like little bells. I fill them with a heavy simmered sauce made of rose harissa, preserved lemons, and heavy cream. In a tall glass, I serve a ginger beer with a splash of blood orange syrup.
I eat my meal slowly, hesitantly– the opposite of how I cook.
In the kitchen, I am confidence and bustle, long and curly hair pinned to the top of my head with knots and willpower alone. In the kitchen, there is a list of things that need to be done, a list of things that can be done. There is control, and room for a little spice: a touch of bells, a hint of rose, a bleeded orange.
Outside the kitchen, over and over again, I ask myself:
What can be done?
What can be done in this beautiful but so often broken world?
On my ko-fi, to thank those who have given, I post a story I published about making 12,000 eggs in prison, after Dave died. There wasn’t anything to do back then, either, and I guess that’s when I always most want something to do.
I have written every day this year, except yesterday. Not everything I have written has been good or shareable, but bad art is important. Private art is important.
You are important.
Your art is important.
Yesterday, I ate my pasta and thought of you. I hope your life has room for art in it.
I hope you know there’s room for you in life.
I hope you know that when there’s nothing to be done, anything that feeds us, anything that sustains us, counts for something.
I read a romance novel while eating. When I look up, my roommate is smiling at his bowl of pasta.
I count this as doing something.