dailyeatings

“Oh, this is random,” she says, using her favorite introductory phrase. “I really want to make cookies tonight.”

Uh, sure, I say, secretly relieved. I’ve learned that “This is random” could mean any number of things, from a mundane question about the dirt in my car to the preface to an hours-long conversation that emotionally unhinges me for days afterward. I sigh with relief, inwardly. Besides, I’m never one to turn down free cookies.

She unfolds a piece of paper completely covered in scratchy, miniscule writing. “I wrote down some ideas—”

Wait, I interrupt. Is that all one recipe?

“No, I wrote down six or seven. I mean, I want to have my bases covered.”

She walks to my cupboards and starts rummaging through my dry goods. She rattles off a list of ingredients, none of which I have.

“Jeez, Dave, do you have anything?”

Kristen, how often do I bake?

“Um, never?”

Exactly. And besides, I don’t need to, with you around. I cook; you bake. Works out all right, don’t you think?

“Yeah, but what are you going to do if I’m not around anymore?”

Do you need a hand? I ask.

“No, I got it” she says, her hands kneading a not-quite brown glob of improvised cookie dough. “I don’t know,” she says, using her second-favorite phrase. “I don’t know how this will turn out. I kind of made it up as I went, and I think I might have messed this up.”

Only one way to find out, I say. We’ll know if it’s any good soon enough.

I take a couple photos of the table: the ingredients, the mixing bowl, empty packages, her recipe sheet—

Abruptly—”Did you just take a photo of my recipe?”

Maybe. Yeah. Was I not supposed to?

“Gosh, Dave,” she sighs. She walks over, grabs the sheet.

Kris, what’s wrong wi—

“I don’t like my handwriting,” she says, folding the paper back up.

Seriously? I laugh.

“Really!”

Kristen, your handwriting. Your handwriting!

“Well, I mean [*her third favorite phrase], it’s my paper,” she answers, stuffing the paper back in her pocket and smiling broadly. “Write your own recipes!”

when i think about how much changed in the last three years

all the growing, the settling, the softening, the inescapable pull of creeping maturity

to where even the most resistant among us have had our sharp, unruly edges rounded

the merits of what we’ve gained cannot be questioned or discounted

but it’s hard not to feel a little disappointed, at least

that we, like every other generation before, failed to live up to our own shit-talk

but you know what? that’s okay.