It started cold. Not a metaphor. Just cold. The kind that gets inside your elbows when you’re reaching into the back of the fridge for …

Recipes Inspired by Martha Stewart, Cooked in Real Life

It started cold. Not a metaphor. Just cold. The kind that gets inside your elbows when you’re reaching into the back of the fridge for …

The smell clung.Tomato, wine, something herbal and too warm. The kind of scent that sticks in fabric, even after the dish towel’s been washed twice. …

It was too hot to think.Not real heat—just the kind that creeps in when the windows don’t open right and the fan clicks like a …

It was quiet in that hard kind of way. Like the kitchen didn’t want me in it.Fridge was humming louder than usual. I hadn’t done …

The butter wouldn’t soften.The banana chips were stale.And I was already annoyed because Mae had said something sharp over text that morning—nothing big, just a …

The kitchen was still cold. I hadn’t turned on the heat yet because I was pretending spring meant something up here. But my hands were …

It was gray in that way March gets cruel with. not dramatic. just dull.Mae was out. The house had this hum to it—dishwasher running, fridge …

I didn’t mean to make anything.There was still toast on the counter from the morning, still coffee in the pot I hadn’t touched since eight, …

The lobster was on sale.That’s the only reason I even looked. I wasn’t feeling coastal. I wasn’t feeling Her Highness. I was barefoot in a …

It was too hot to be this angry.The kind of day where your skin hums from old sunburn and the kitchen feels like it’s judging …