It started with the zester. Bent just enough to catch on the skin of the lime and knick me, slightly—enough to swear. Enough to remember …

Recipes Inspired by Martha Stewart, Cooked in Real Life

It started with the zester. Bent just enough to catch on the skin of the lime and knick me, slightly—enough to swear. Enough to remember …

It was too hot to think.Not summer-hot. Emotional-hot. That weird heat that rises when you’re holding too much in — jaw, gut, fists. I opened …

The dog was barking at the wind again and I couldn’t find the lid to the sugar jar. That’s how it started. Not with a …

It started with the pink food coloring.I wasn’t even planning to bake. I’d opened the drawer for a tea towel—one of the good ones, the …

The kitchen smelled like oil before I even started.Not the clean kind. The kind that lingers in your clothes and hair and makes you wonder …

It started with the knife.The dull one. The one I should’ve sharpened weeks ago—the one with the crack in the handle that pinches your thumb …

It was the kind of cold that settles in your joints before you even open the door. Not dramatic snowstorm cold—just the gray, unforgiving chill …

The kitchen smelled like broth and wet rope.Not bad—just strange.November was late this year, and I was late with it. The fridge had grapes rolling …

The radiator was clicking again. That uneven clack it makes when the air’s too dry and I’ve forgotten to bleed the pipes. I wasn’t planning …

The jar already had something in it.Hard to say what. Looked like lemon pulp and regret. I rinsed it half-heartedly, left one seed floating, didn’t …