Zara looked at Russell a couple of moments more, shook her head, turned on her soot-caked, booted heel, and left the meeting. The Clown and Gerald departed together very shortly after, but even so … Neither could get a beat on where Zara had gone. They went off in opposite directions, in search of her.

After all, they needed Zara.

Zara always knew what to do.

Because Zara? She could look at a frayed trapeze rope and know exactly how long it had before the aerialist became a cautionary tale. She could hear barely three sentences from a disgruntled juggler and understand which knives were missing, which knives were dull, which knives had been promised to another act, and which knives were currently in the hands of a clown who did not “believe” in gravity. She could even immediately suss out when The Clown Caucus were in need of a shoeshine for their big, big clown shoes.

Zara simply understood how things worked. This was her gift. These skills also proved rarer than one might hope, as did their natural counterpart — The deep, certain-enough-to-prove-correct-most-of-the-time, understanding of when things were not working, at all.

Having the particular — albeit complicated — genius of both, whenever the circus lurched toward catastrophe, Zara stepped in. When the lions had not been fed because everyone thought someone else had spoken with the lion feeder, Zara found their supper. When the ticket booth was double-booked with a puppet show and a knife-throwing demonstration, Zara rerouted one act while simultaneously making a schedule to prevent the error from happening again. When the costume wagon lost a wheel, Zara unearthed the wheel, the wrench, the person who had borrowed the wrench, and the invoice from the last time the wheel had been declared fixed.

Not surprisingly then, when The Ringmaster finally noted the need, a few years prior, to begin to address the feasibility of addressing the need for appropriate structures to perhaps address the need for smoke mitigation …These skillsets seemed to make Zara the clear and obvious choice for Fire Marshal. After all, Zara had proven herself so quick, so insightful, so strategic, time and again.

That was so useful!

And being useful?

Being useful can be dangerous.

The Clown found Zara first, having a conversation with Rufus, the venerated Circus Lion. She grabbed a crate, then a second and third, pulling them all closer as Gerald, having finally found the crew, walked slowly toward them.

“Here’s what I think.”

Rufus looked surprised, as he always was when The Clown spoke, given its relative infrequency.

“I think we just finally torch the place, once and for all.”

Gerald sat down heavily on one of the overturned crates. “I was afraid you were going to say that.”

“Afraid? Gerald … Life is just too short for that. We have been doing our best to deal with this fire for years, now. YEARS. And what good has come of it? I’m done, and I’m not the only one, either. I’ve spoken — at length — with the TCC.”

Rufus’ eyes narrowed.

“What in the world have you and THOSE wild-eyed loons been talking about?!”

Gerald sighed deeply and rubbed his temples.

“I just knew it.”

“How did you know?”

“Oh … c’mon.

You disappear every Thursday.”

For those not in the circus-know, the TCC was, of course, The Clown Caucus. Every circus has one, or at the very least, every circus worth attending. The Clown reached into one of her oversized pockets and withdrew a folded piece of paper. Not a binder. Nary a report in sight. Not even a strategic framework. Just a piece of paper that appeared to have once been a circus flyer. The Clown unfolded it carefully, delicately even, before spreading it across the other, overturned crate.

Zara stared.

Rufus stared.

Gerald stared.

Then Zara spoke.

“That’s … That’s the whole … plan?”

“It’s a draft.”

“It’s a drawing.”

“Drawing is a form of drafting.”

“Not in this case.”

The Clown pointed.

“This is the circus.”

Zara sighed.

“It’s a circle.”

“The circus is also a circle.”

The Clown pointed again.

“This is the clown car.”

Then The Clown quickly tapped each crayon star. There were seven, one of which appeared to be wearing some sort of … Hat?

“These are the clowns.”

Gerald pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Why does one of them have a hat?”

“That’s Steve.”

“Who’s Steve?”

“One of the clowns.”

“Why is Steve on the map with a top hat?”

“Steve insisted.”

Zara closed her eyes.

The Clown continued.

“Anyway, the point is that the TCC has spent considerable time discussing solutions.”

“Arson,” Gerald corrected.

“Alternative solutions.”

“Arson.”

“The identified best, alternative solution. Arson.”

“Look,” continued The Clown. “The important thing is that we’re finally asking the right question.”

“And what’s that?” Zara asked.

The Clown leaned forward. For the first time since joining them, she wasn’t smiling. “Why are we still trying to save this circus?”

Zara glanced at the piece of paper, again.

“OK. O …. Kay. How much gasoline have we got squirreled away so far?”

Zara blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Three.

Times.

Gerald also blinked.

But the Clown? She merely coughed and fanned her face to ward off the smoke.

Russell began taking notes, though there wasn’t much to note, Zara assumed, given the silence. The Ringmaster smiled, widely and … Encouragingly? The smile seemed to suggest they believed they had said something both wise and helpful, in their ongoing attempts to ever so masterfully manage all this complexity.

“The smoke,” Zara said, with what she surmised would be a palatable enough, non-intimidating blend of congeniality and competence, “is from the fire.”

The acrobats shifted, then, noticeably uncomfortable, all sets of eyes carefully trained on still frayed high-wire act ropes at their feet. The Ringmaster paused, tapped their nose with their finger several times, and eventually nodded.

That, Zara …

“That is an excellent observation.”

Russell also nodded in earnest and sycophantic agreement while writing Zara = Excellent Observation on his yellow clipboard notepad. “Thank you,” Zara replied. “Given that, are we going to discuss the fire?”

The Ringmaster smiled again.

But it was a different smile this time.

No matter, as Zara had become exceedingly well-versed at both recognizing and interpreting The Ringmaster’s full range of smiles. This next grin was The One generally reserved for particularly annoying children, smoke-addled circus goers, and circus staff who had accidentally wandered into yet another meeting with any actual expectations of clarity, transparency or solutions.

Zara looked at Gerald.

Gerald looked at Zara.

And the Clown?

She looked at nobody.

“Zara, I’m not sure we’re truly hearing one another, yet. I think we’ve made it clear. We’re here to discuss smoke mitigation.”

“I do hear you, Ringmaster, but as I think you know, where there’s smoke …”

Outside, something exploded.

Nothing too spectacular, of course.

Just enough to rattle the lanterns.

Nobody even reacted.

It happened all the time.

The Ringmaster continued.

“Let’s put a pin in that for now, Zara. I think it important that we work toward pivoting to our Smoke Mitigation Visioning Exercise. I’ve spent so much good and contemplative time, planning that! Before we do, though, I believe Fire Marshal Zara may have, at one time or another, requested additional buckets. That’s correct, isn’t it?”

As if on (carefully and contemplative?) cue, Russell immediately produced a second binder. This one was considerably thicker and heavily layered with charcoal colored soot.

“How many buckets did you request, Zara?” asked The Ringmaster.

“Three.”

The Ringmaster nodded, gravely. Russell flipped rapidly through several hundred pages. “According to these records,” he said, “Fire Marshal Zara’s in triplicate bucket request process began approximately …

Flip.

Flip.

Flip.

… fourteen months ago.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Gerald could no longer maintain his silence.

“That’s what the Bucket Readiness Assessment Team concluded as well,” Russell continued. “After the initial Bucket Needs Evaluation, the request was forwarded to the Strategic Bucket Steering Committee.”

“The … what?” Zara could also no longer contain her exasperation.

“The Strategic Bucket Steering Committee. We call it the SBSC. Maybe that rings a bell?”

Zara rolled her eyes and removed her ash-covered glasses, doing her best to clean them, yet again. “Who serves on that?”

Russell consulted his notes. “Nobody knows. The committee has not successfully assembled since its formation.”

Zara was too far past the point of congenial for any hope of return, now.

“Then — how does it make decisions?”

Russell looked genuinely perplexed. “Through process, of course.”

The Clown made a strangled, chocking sort of sound — Probably the smoke.

Zara closed her eyes. Then, Slowly. Carefully …

“Did I ever get the buckets, Russell?”

Russell checked page 787b, subset paragraph 2.6f of the binder and noticeably brightened.

“Yes! Yes you did!”

Zara opened her left eye, affixing her gaze on Russell’s sooted binder.

“I did?”

You sure did, Fire Marshal. You received three buckets.”

“And were they functional buckets, Russell?”

Russell hesitated.

Gerald muttered a prayer.

“Well,” Russell said, “that depends entirely, of course, precisely how one defines functional.”

(Part four, headed your way next …)

Yes — they were still right there.

Those leaky, broken buckets were still strewn on the ground, just under Zara’s feet. As she pondered if anything genuinely useful might be done, she remembered.

Zara remembered The Meeting.

To be fair, it had not been called “The Meeting” at the time. When that conversation happened, it had come on the heels of an especially nasty run-in with one circus goer, three villages ago now, who had complained mightily about just how thick the smoke had become by the circus’ fifth and final performance.

Somehow, that industrious guest had even managed to bypass the many, many levels of human and other circus stop-gap so carefully in place, leaving them with direct, uncomfortable access to …

The Ringmaster.

Ever a leader of — and for — the people, The Ringmaster, of course, graciously heard this circus goer’s gripes and groans with the deep care and compassion befitting such a leader. They assured the befuddled, coughing guest that yes, something would definitely be done, and right away. The swift and subsequent firing of the second Deputy Director who may have played some role in the circus goer’s arrival at The Ringmaster’s tent surely had no real connection to just how deeply, genuinely concerned The Ringmaster was when hearing the guest’s criticisms.

There was an Open Tent Door Policy in Place, after all.

Shortly after the exhausted team arrived in the next village, The Ringmaster implemented one of their most cherished strategies. This iteration was coined the Emergency Cross-Functional Fire Response and Smoke Mitigation Alignment Convening. Or ECFFRSMAC, to simplify things, as The Ringmaster prided themselves on the straightforward, simple way they so excellently managed all this complexity.

When the team convened, The Ringmaster insisted it was not merely a meeting. Instead, it was a collaborative opportunity to center shared learnings across the circus ecosystem, particularly around smoke and its impact on The Circus’ closely guarded “reputation.”

Funny … No mention of the circus goer’s concerns entered the conversation. But no matter — Russell dutifully set aside his clipboard so he could dole out the new ECFFRSMAC binders, and the collaborative opportunity was underway.

The Ringmaster opened with a customary brief grounding statement.

That lasted forty-seven minutes.

Russell gave it a standing ovation.

By its end, three of the acrobats had quietly darned two sleeves, one pant leg, and patched a large, smoking hole near the left shoulder of Gerald’s costume. Gerald was one of the longest-tenured acrobats of the troupe and, though worn out, had nonetheless recently begun describing himself as “crispy but committed.”

Then, at last, The Ringmaster invited “reflections.”

Zara raised one small, gloved hand.

The tent went quiet.

Zara knew their attention was not because anyone was especially eager to hear from her, mind you. Over time and the travails of circus travel, much of the troupe had come to view Zara as somewhat, arguably even irritatingly, single-minded. Many talked of it, even, in smaller groups, and often. To hear it told, among Zara’s other, vaguely curious qualities? The girl was forever bringing up …

Fire.

Smoke.

Embers.

Combustion.

Flammable materials.

Evacuation routes.

Etc.

And so on.

Over.

And over,

And then over, again.

Only Gerald seemed to have considered that this might have something to do with Zara’s role as … Well. Fire Marshal.

Also because it was, in fact, fire.

“Are we going to talk about the fire?” Zara asked.

“We’re here,” The Ringmaster replied, “primarily to collaboratively address issues of smoke mitigation.”

(Part three, continuing soon …)

Except, some people whispered …

There was that one town …

Wasn’t there?

Still, there were almost never raging flames whose white-hot edges tore through the sky above the villagers as they screamed and scrambled to get out of harm’s reach. It seemed like most circus goers felt that was a good thing. After all … A fire like that? It would have required alarm bells, evacuation routes, maybe even a bucket? And, come to think of it — Just where were all the buckets?

Not a bucket in sight. Whew!

Good thing it’s harmless,

This circus fire of ours.

It’s merely a little smoke, wafting from behind the lion cages. It’s barely that little flame, igniting as it always seems to, underneath the costume wagon whose right rear wheel keeps coming off its axle. It’s mostly only that suspicious orange glow inside the ticket booth, really.

The circus goers learned to step around the fire. They agreed they found it unfortunate. It nonetheless wasn’t quite urgent enough to interrupt the show. They were so keen to see the clowns, you know, as they settled in their seats, dabbing their watering eyes and coughing softly from the smoke.

And the circus? Well.

It was very, very busy.

As with all such circuses, a great many deeply important and admirable things needed to be done. There were several acts to announce, smoke-saturated banners to hang, red-eyed elephants to tend to, asthma-afflicted acrobats to reassure whose ropes needed inspecting — or at least discuss inspecting, one day soon.

And then? Then there was The Ringmaster.

To hear it told … The Ringmaster was beloved by a few, feared by others, and ultimately exhausting to nearly everyone. They had a magnificent red coat, a loud and commanding voice, and a remarkable talent for making every ordinary circus matter sound as though Parliament Themselves needed summoning.

If a tent stake went missing, they called it a structural alignment concern. If the popcorn cart ran out of salt, they wanted a cross-functional snack strategy. If the monkeys escaped, they praised the team’s agility while simultaneously asking who had last updated the outcome folder of the Primate Containment Plan after the last two PCP Standing Subcommittee Meetings.

The Ringmaster believed they managed complexity.

They further believed they managed said complexity exceptionally well.

And the acrobats? The acrobats darned the burn holes in their fraying costumes while glancing worriedly in the direction of those still-uninspected trapeze ropes, every now and again. Then they glanced at one another, seemed to decide something, before turning in their usual, graceful unison, with smiles and earnest nods toward The Ringmaster, endorsing just how exceptionally well the complexity was being managed.

Since all exceptional Ringmasters need their rings … Ours was circled by assistant ringmasters, deputy ringmasters, aspiring ringmasters, consulting ringmasters, and even one guy who had once read a book about Ringmastery as Leadership and apparently never fully recovered.

That dude’s name was Russell.

Russell didn’t even like circuses.

Still … Nobody could get rid of him.

Fortunately, all those circlers?

They were also quite important.

Though, to be clear,

Not nearly as important as the Ringmaster.

But no matter.

Because they carried clipboards.

They issued updates.

And they used words like …

vision, zeitgeist, momentum, accountability, pivot, activation, AND alignment

Somewhere, in all of this circus type grandeur and importance, there stood a girl called Zara. Zara was decidedly not the Ringmaster, though many people behaved as if she were, at least when it suited them and the Ringmaster was out of earshot.

Zara did not own the circus.

Zara had not even designed the circus.

Nope.

Zara was the Fire Marshal.

(to be continued …)

I am on a bit of road trip this weekend. More on those adventures soon, likely. But in the meantime …

I stopped along the way last night for a sleep. This morning, and with no other alternatives in sight, I made my way to that Place of All the Places — the hotel breakfast room. As I begin to look around, not yet combobulated and trying to figure out my coffee and breakfast-ing strategy, I become part of a morning chat with two Moms, one at a table with three kiddos, the other fucking brilliantly managing her own two tables of six littles.

Mom of Three compliments Mom of Six.

She notes just how amazing it is to make all of that, happen.

You damn skippy, Mom of Three.

You.

Damn.

Skippy.

Mom of Six smiles and says that her husband, who is “in athletics,” has said that once you go from man-to-man to zone … It’s really all the same. And then she smiles, humbly, and notes she doesn’t really know for sure, not being an athlete, or anything. We smile, nod, and proceed to go about our breakfast business.

A few minutes later … Dad of Six ambles into the breakfast room, solo. Admittedly, I dunno what “in athletics” might mean, but that dude? He looks about as in the athletics as me. Which is to say, pretty much not in any athletics, anytime, anywhere, at all. He leisurely starts making himself a waffle, all while not speaking at all to his six, busy, chattering, eating children, as Mom continues to buzz around, serving, refereeing, and doing all the things. Magnificently doing all the things, I might add. Then, she orients Dad to the breakfast room, since he seems unable to pull that off for himself, seemingly so he can finish his - still totally solo, arguably even contemplative? - breakfast prep.

I wonder …

Perhaps Dad can really only find his way one place, over and over again, reliably?

Though to be fair, and best I can tell —

He likely gets a lot of help with that, too.

Soon after, as I sit a bit away, at my own table, making my way through the breakfast sammich I have magically created in said Breakfast Room, one of those six littles (My best guess is that she is the second or third youngest of the six. Hey there, Middle-ish Girl Kid! We see you!) starts to say, quite unsolicited …

“I’m a Gaaaang-ster!”

Girl.

Same.

It happens a coupla more times, with what appears to be no response. And that, my friends? That is pretty clearly not the intended outcome, at all. Still, fear not. Like so many other Middle-ish Girl Kids, our heroine is ever resourceful. She chirpily hops off her chair, makes her way to the next-door table where her Mom has - finally - been able to perch for a bit, and says,

“Mom! Watch!

Emily taught me this.

I’m a Gaaaaaang-ster!

I’m a Gangster!

I’m a Gang-sterrrrrrrrrr!”

But now? Now.

Now there is also an arm movement.

It’s a sort of …

Jaunty, perfectly timed “And how!” Kinda thing.

Much like if Little Orphan Annie was, also, a gangster.

Because, let’s face it —

Annie so clearly was.

Her Mom, who I can barely take my trying-not-to-pry eyes off of - so struck by how she so calmly, kindly pulls all this shit off - then asks Emily’s Little Sister (the artist formerly known as MGK) to do it all again, just like she did it before. After a coupla more practice runs, Mom films it all with her phone.

Wait.

Wait.

Maybe they’re influencers?

I’ve heard tell of such business.

And … Hell.

Six kids need stuff.

Not too long after, Mom of Six herds the whole, adorable bunch to whatever next adventures loom nearby. They are wonderfully ready to roll. Hopped up on Froot Loops or something like ‘em. In it to win it. Go, them.

And Dad?

Well Dad gets more solo, quiet time.

Scrolling his phone.

Eating his yogurt.

Nary a care in the world.

Yeaaaahhhhhhh.

It’s obviously really all the same, isn’t it?

Sadly, I realize I missed my chance to tell Emily’s Little Sister that I, too, am a gangster. But you know what? I’m not that worried about it, really. I bet she just knew.

Because game?

Game recognizes game.

1. A communications piece needs to be drafted and distributed with urgency. You send some notes to assist and get an impromptu call to correct your poor judgment in changing some initial words.

2. The relevant script then starts getting redrafted in places and by people with and for whom you have no useful script-related context, because you’re not in on it. Which is cool, as there are approximately 43 other things expected of your time and energy in about the next 18 minutes. (Give or take.)

3. Late(ish) that same Friday evening, you receive what appears to be a mostly-approved-by-multiple-people script, with a note that the beginning is not correct for its intended audience (Spoiler alert — That’s right on. It’s definitely not.) You make changes that still adhere to the draft, as it’s your understanding it has been drafted and approved elsewhere for reasons, again, unknown and not including, you. Then you send it back.

4. The person with whom final approval rests sends it back again, now questioning why the most irrelevant-to-the-intended-audience dreck is there, at all.

5. But … Wait. No. They don’t send it back to you. After all, that’s not the proper chain of command, you silly goose.

6. It gets sent back to you by someone else, to presumably … Fix it? Some more?

7. Then … It’s 7:08 on Saturday Morning when you send back what you hope to be a coherent upgrade to what should be a pretty straightforward communications piece. To be fair, you are also pondering whether bourbon is a superior breakfast drink to your usual espresso, neither of which you’ve had, yet.

Because you can think about two things at the same time.

Or you at least like to pretend you can.

And it’s 7:08.

On a Saturday morning.

Also — It seems Ole Dante was severely, spiritually misguided. Because that’s seven levels. And we ain’t even done yet.

So … Yeah.

Bourbon?

Superior breakfast beverage.

For you fellow book and word nerds out there, frowning and waving your library cards in my general direction … yes. I know. I even know, you know. Of course we know. (Though I admittedly did use the robot-facilitated internets to double-check, since me and Dante have been out of one another’s closer company for a bit.) There aren’t seven levels of hell, though the more common cultural reference tends to suggest there are.

Nope.

There are NINE.

Nine circles, actually.

And the upcoming eighth circle?

It includes …

Pimps.

Flatterers.

Hypocrites.

AND thieves.

Squeeeeeeeeeeeee!

I do so love having something to look forward to.

Imma just sit back, sip my Pappy Rye, neat, and await their arrival.

• 🏆 Lobster Roll

  Broad Street Oyster Co.

  Grand Central Market — Los Angeles

  https://www.broadstreetoyster.com

  https://www.instagram.com/broadstreetoysterco

This was, without question, the best lobster roll I’ve ever had. Studded with uni and caviar, because apparently we were not here to be subtle. Sweet lobster, briny depth, richness layered on richness — indulgent in a way that felt intentional, and perhaps even a little ridiculous, in the best way.

I remember thinking, mid-bite, that this wasn’t excess for the sake of spectacle. This was precision luxury — and that, friend? That is something to which I can certainly aspire.

Truth is —

I’d eat it again tomorrow.

I’d plan a trip around it.

Hell.

I already kind of have.

• 🏅 Everything. Every. Last. Thing.

  Herb & Omni

  Whitefish, Montana

  https://www.herbandomni.com

  https://www.instagram.com/herb.and.omni

There are dinners you remember because of where they happen. Then there are the ones you remember because of how they make you feel — just after the caviar chip and right before you dive, ever so delicately, into the most beautiful beet salad in all of creation.

I try to get to Whitefish for at least a coupla days each year. This time around, in early November, I went to celebrate the finished first draft of my first book. With that necessary toast — or set of them — in mind, a restaurant I’d heard about but never visited felt like exactly the right choice.

Herb & Omni is tucked into Whitefish’s beautifully restored 101 Central building. The menu is seasonal and locally sourced, executed by a chef with a storyteller’s sensibility, and served with equal wryness and skill in rooms as warm and intimate as a friend’s living room — just with better lighting. And waaaaaay better food, of course.

Chef Earl?

This man knows some shit.

Run.

Don’t walk.

• 🌟 Bubbles. Brine. Boy. Oh. Boy.

  Taylor Shellfish

  Taylor Shellfish

  Multiple Locations — Seattle, WA

  https://www.taylorshellfishfarms.com

  https://www.instagram.com/taylorshellfish

Taylor Shellfish isn’t about novelty. Best I can tell, it’s about simple things done so shockingly well they transcend. A couple of Seattle-based colleagues suggested their Melrose location years ago, and since then — I can’t stop going.

Taylor Shellfish has been family-owned and operated since the 1890s, harvesting and growing sustainable shellfish in the Pacific Northwest. It all started, it seems, with some dear great-great-grandfather and a fledgling oyster operation in the Puget Sound.

Bless that bless-ed man.

And bless his successors.

Now five generations in.

While oysters are always obligatory here, Taylor also does this other thing — another suggestion from those same colleagues — fresh Dungeness crab served with what I’m told is a crab-fat aioli.

Dude.

Duuuuuuuuuuuude.

A few years,

A few dozen oysters,

A few bottles of good champs,

And a few aioli-ed crabs in …

You.

Must.

Go.

Burned anything.

(Though maybe that does happen, once in a great while.)

Ruined a recipe.

(Rare, and still … See above.)

Forgotten a name or a ribbon or a delivery.

(I think — fingers crossed — that this is one that has never happened. Even so, do I occasionally, maybe have a sparkly December nightmare about that happening? Perhaps once or twice.)

Nope. It simply means I’ve gone too far, again. Invariably, I’ve already been at it for a few days, by then. My “cooking” yoga pants and concert tee are likely able to walk, right out the door and down the street, on their own. But me? I just keep putting ’em on again, each morning. The countertops in my small kitchen are overwhelmed. The equitably small fridge and freezer are bursting at their seams. And the floor in the living room? That may also be increasingly full of boxes — a few that once held other boxes, still other that will hold all of the incredible goodness causing the kitchen to threaten a strike.

And yet—

My current home … An adorable, functional space of about 850 square feet …

It smells like chocolate, good butter, dark brown sugar, and—

Healthy doses of authentic, even passionate, love-to-give-more-than-I-receive holiday spirit.

Plus, maybe, that concert tee, just a little.

And still — my brain is whispering,

You could also make…

Or it used to, anyway.

That didn’t really happen this year.

Score.

This year, and with these few weeks I have away from my more usual work life, I started out with a fundamentally different approach. Most of that, I think, was meant to absorb the other work I also wanted to accomplish. I am working on the last set of drafts — pre-query — of my first book. It’s a memoir, of a kind, from a writer, of a kind. And I’m certain we’ll talk a lot more about that soon, especially in the New Year.

Still.

In the meantime.

This year —

Bake and cook.

Plus draft and redraft.

Hmmmmm.

I love this part.

I really do.

Even in the line-crossing moment when I most have to remind myself.

Did I mention that I love this part?

I really do.

I also genuinely love all the parts that lead up to it. I adore the planning, having a deep love of pretty much any kind of planning. The little, ever-in-the-first-grade, arithmetical math whiz? She loves the recipe scaling, the problem-solving, the calculations of baking and cooking … Just a little bit more. A touch more than what has been deemed enough. Just enough more to share, more widely.

For me, there’s also deep satisfaction in repetition, the growing recognition that comes with doing it over and over again, and finally, the ongoing refinement only made possible by those first two.

Recipe mastery.

But then—

Recipe tweaks.

New recipes from treasured older ones.

And, practically always—

Better chocolate.

Better butter.

Cleaner cuts.

Less waste.

Yaaaaaaay.

Ho, ho, ho.

Given that need to rescale and reconfigure this year, though, I started thinking about mapping out my approach several weeks ago. I cut usually yearly recipes, for instance, that required both semi-extensive baking and could prove harder to maintain freshness for any length of time. So — no cakes. Then, I settled on one less cookie recipe, and added a coupla every-few-years items that prove both delicious and portable.

Ultimately, this year’s list was not small:

• Peanut Butter Balls

• Hot Cocoa Mix with Handmade ’Mallows

• House Spiced Nuts

• Hello Dollies

• White Chocolate Snowflake Shortbread

• Rice Krispies Treats*

*Before I end up lying on myself … The Rice Krispies Treats? Those were a late addition. There is just no way you can not find a good, yummy use for fresh ’mallow scraps and leftovers. And as a middle child of Generation X? The Rice Krispies Treat is PEAK nostalgia, especially if you had a mom who, like mine … did not bake.

Double score.

With my calendar — and its daily to-dos dutifully color-coded and mapped — I was ready to go. Cooking, baking, and holiday merriment? One hue. Chapter pre-reads, additional drafts, and other manuscript work? Another shade, of course.

And how did it go, you must be (hopefully) wondering, reader-friend? Pretty freaking great, all things relative and considered. One thing I am finding … The same instincts and traits that make me a really good home cook — precision, foresight, calibration, restraint learned the hard way, over time … Those are some of the same ones I’m learning to trust differently, on the page, as I create ’em.

Things like—

You don’t need to say everything.

You don’t need to make six versions of eleven different things.

And maybe most?

You don’t need to prove your care, your skill, or your intention by exhausting yourself. Sometimes the most generous act is stopping before the system collapses. So this year, I stopped, and I even managed to do it when planned. (With that later rice cereal treat addition, of course.) Then I packaged what was made. I stacked the boxes. I cleaned the counter.

And on the cooking front?

I did not add Maldon salt just because I could.

And also because …

Do y’all really think my not-cooking mom did that, circa 1979?!

Instead, I let good butter do its job.

And on the writing front?

I trusted the gift of really good first drafts.

And then I made those suckers so much better.

I then noticed the moment when continuing could have tipped from joy into obligation. It was a few days ago, now, and … My little place? Real, real full. My concert tee? Real, real ripe. My writing schedule? Not quite really behind its calendar, but almost. Still — I chose not to cross it. I tilted a bit, perhaps. But tip? Noooooope.

That recognition—

which led to the ability to choose?

That felt newish.

And even a little radical.

So me?

I’ve decided to keep doing that shit.

Because just maybe—

the hardest part isn’t knowing how to do the thing.

It’s knowing when the thing is already enough.

Score.

I love both the pleasure of my own company and the company of others in fairly equal measure. Still—there is nothing quite like the former, especially when a devoted home cook like myself is craving two things:

• the delicious nostalgia of a traditional Thanksgiving meal

• a luxurious, solitary chance to fool around with those recipes, my table-scaping, and other holiday joys

The result? A full feast, cooked by me, for me. No audience. No commentary. No family performance art. Just a woman in her (early, thank you very much!) fifties making a Thanksgiving dinner because she wanted the flavors, the ritual, and the smell of turkey roasting in this incredible, little bachelorette pad she lives in—quite happily—by herself.

And honestly? It was kind of fucking glorious.

OK — Maybe even more than kind of.

The table was more decorated than necessary for one person, which was likely the entire point. I set it exactly how I wanted: “maximalist” and maybe even at design odds with itself — paisley, florals, pumpkins, little red cocottes filled with sides. A table that might’ve looked over-the-top for guests (or not), but was just right for me this year.

Even so, there’s at least one beloved person it absolutely would have looked over-the-top to: my best friend and Dad, Joe. Our approach-based differences aside… Joe was a helluva family holiday cook, and we spent many happy years—several of us together—benefitting from that.

Dad died ten years ago this December. It hardly seems possible. That it’s been that long. That it will stretch out even and ever longer, across time, while still feeling like no real time has passed at all.

Among his countless great qualities, Joe loved him a “lil bun sammich.” Especially around those roast-meat, soft-roll holidays. That man could take leftover turkey, a soft roll, and a smear of mayonnaise (or maybe even ketchup—yikes) and build an entire “this is the reason I cooked all this damn food and invited y’all over” sort of mood around it.

Joe wasn’t fancy. Joe wasn’t picky. Joe wasn’t dramatic.

Dad appreciated good food in simple combinations—the kind of man who collected small pleasures quietly. The kind of man whose funeral, ten years ago this December, was so full that dozens of fellow firefighters lined the aisle in dress uniforms, serving proudly, tearfully as his bereav honor guard. The kind of man who deserved a better ending than he got—end-stage cancer being a swift and vicious partner—but who was loved enough, and loved so deeply, that a great many people showed up.

And at Dad’s post-funeral gathering? Of course there were lil bun sammiches.

Soft little rolls you could tear apart and fill with meat and memories and whatever else you needed to get through that terrible, terrible day.

Lil bun sammiches as comfort food.

Lil bun sammiches as grief food.

Lil bun sammiches because Joe loved them.

And lil bun sammiches because we all sure loved us some Joe.

A couple days ago, I made a sourdough version—Joe’s Lil Bun Sammich Rolls—because I sometimes need that sort of ritual now, in all of its many forms. And because, though it’s not true every year, I especially needed it this year.

Often—

Rolls matter.

Small comforts matter.

Food built from memory matters.

Being happily solo this year, I cooked up a storm: bone-in turkey breast, cornbread and sourdough focaccia stuffing, Yukon Gold mashed potatoes, roasted carrots and Brussels sprouts, roasting-pan gravy, fresh cranberry–blood orange sauce, and of course—those rolls. I plated it all from that highly adorned table like I was serving someone I loved.

Because I was.

Myself.

And also my Dad, Joe.

It seems certain enough I was also serving the part of me that spent too long letting other people dictate the emotional temperature of every holiday. But we’ll get to all that, reader-friend, some other soonish time.

In the meantime—

This is the soft-roll, soft-launch version of what our shared community, mouthy., is going to be: food, lineage, grief, humor, inheritance, truth-telling, and unapologetic joy wherever I - wherever we - can find it.

It’s not always going to be pretty. It’s unlikely to be polished or light all the time. It’s not performative wellness. It’s a little sharper than that. A little more real. And a helluva lot more centered on what authentic healing looks, taste, smells and feels like.

And today, as I glance resignedly at the dishes still waiting for their turn, and with far more enthusiasm at the lil bun sammiches awaiting me, some truths feel simple:

I made a feast for myself.

I ate it with complete satisfaction.

And Joe’s rolls turned out beautifully.

Not perfect.

Still close enough to feel like a small act of devotion.

Given that lack of culinary perfection, I’ve already rewritten the recipe and plan to tackle it at least one more time this holiday season. Trust and believe—when I get closer to roll nirvana, I’ll share it.

Today, I’m just sharing this:

I fed myself well, and it mattered. I hope you have and will do the same. And here—we’ll figure out how to keep doing that.

Together.