---

I’ve always loved to cook.
Even as a tiny, chaos-bringing gremlin in my grandma’s kitchen, I was there. “Helping.” Which, as it turns out, was mostly code for: standing in the way, asking 400 questions, sneaking bites, and almost burning my eyebrows off trying to peek into a pot. But she didn’t mind. She let me stir the soup that didn’t need stirring. She let me slice things I probably shouldn’t have been trusted with. She let me exist in the kitchen with her—and that was enough. That was everything.

It only took me about thirty years to realize I wasn’t really helping. But by then it didn’t matter. I’d already inhaled the smell of onions sizzling in butter, I’d memorized the way she always said you salt from the soul, not from the wrist, and I’d learned that food is less about recipes and more about instincts. And survival. And love. And being a tiny god for an hour with a wooden spoon in your hand.

But let’s not get all romantic.

Because here’s the truth: some days I feel like a dead battery in a sunlit room. I stare into the fridge like it personally betrayed me. I hate every idea I’ve ever had. I wonder if I peaked in 2017. I pace around like a feral Victorian ghost in yoga pants. I feel existentially unproductive. Useless. Like a damp sponge with WiFi.

And the worst part? Everyone online seems to be thriving. They’re writing novels, sourdough-ing their way to enlightenment, learning Japanese and retiling their bathroom, while I’m standing in aisle five of the grocery store contemplating the meaning of life and whether chicken is a valid dinner again.

But here’s a secret: productivity is a scam. A capitalist trap dressed up as virtue. Do we really have to be inspired and poetic and hashtag-blessed all the damn time? No. Sometimes you just want to scroll your life away and eat a soft pretzel over the sink like a raccoon. That’s still living.

Anyway, about the chicken.

I didn’t plan it. I wandered the store in a fugue state of culinary nihilism. Picked up a chicken breast like it owed me money. Stared at it. Shrugged. Threw it in the basket. No sparks. No Pinterest board. No hand-written shopping list. Just vibes.

When I got home, I stood in my kitchen (still in my coat like an emotionally unavailable detective in a crime show) and thought, Alright, bird. Let’s dance.

Rubbed it down with salt and pepper. None of that Himalayan fairy dust—just regular degular salt. Cracked black pepper like I meant it. Olive oil, because obviously. Smashed a few garlic cloves like they insulted my honor. Sprigs of rosemary and thyme from my tiny herb garden, which I treat like a group of emotional support plants. They’re scruffy and chaotic and smell like ambition. Scattered some cherry tomatoes—red and yellow, because we’re not animals—and threw the whole thing into the oven like a woman who’s seen things.

It came out bubbling, golden, blistered, alive. The garlic turned soft and sweet, the tomatoes burst like little bombs of joy, and the chicken was juicy in a way that made me feel briefly like I had my life together. Serve it with some rice. Don’t overthink it. Don’t arrange it like a flat lay. This isn’t Instagram. This is real life and we’re hungry.

And listen—this is not a cooking blog.

I’m not going to tell you to preheat your oven to 375°F like it’s a revelation from the divine. I’m not about to recount a 2,000-word odyssey of how chicken reminds me of my semester abroad in Florence. I don’t care about the keto-gluten-free-almond-milked-air-fried-in-the-shadow-of-the-moon trends. I am not sponsored by anyone except chaos and leftover coffee. And let’s be honest—most food blogs are barely food blogs. They’re digital graveyards of oversharing. You could probably confess to international tax fraud in the middle of a recipe and no one would ever notice. Not even the Feds. Especially not the Feds.

So yeah, this isn’t that. If I post about food, it’ll be like this: no-nonsense, borderline offensive, and probably written during an identity crisis.

But if you’re uninspired, if your soul feels like it’s buffering, if your body craves something warm and simple and alive—you can make this. You don’t need to be in the mood. You don’t need a plan. You just need to be a little hungry, and a little tired of your own nonsense.

That’s the sweet spot.

Because some days, cooking is the only thing that saves me from fully combusting. It’s my way of saying: I’m still here. I’m still hungry. I still give a damn, even if just barely.

So here’s the recipe. In all its non-recipe glory:

Some Sort of Existential Chicken
– Chicken filet, rubbed with salt and pepper like you mean it
– Olive oil, generous like your grandma’s heart
– Garlic, smashed, because rage is flavor
– Fresh rosemary and thyme, or whatever green stuff you didn’t kill
– Cherry tomatoes, handfuls of color that look like optimism
– Throw it in the oven. 375°F. Bake until it smells like a reason to keep going.
– Serve with rice. Or don’t. I’m not the police.

Do not expect regular recipes. Do not expect Pinterest aesthetics. Do not expect me to be your food guru.

But do expect truth. And sharp humor. And a little bit of rebellion in every paragraph.
And hey—if you needed an idea for lunch…
Now you’ve got one.

Stick around. I’m not here to impress.

I don’t perform.
I write. You deal with it.

---