#apparently!

I barely cooked in New York, but it really did come down to the fact that my roommate and best friend was better at it than me, was particular about their food, and also tended to pick apart food, just like I did. It's not their fault that I have trauma at all, but it hurt me in ways I didn't even realize until near the end, when I was trying to cook again, and realized that having them in the kitchen with me made me panic. That easy and simple meals that I could do in my sleep were suddenly a thousand times more difficult because I couldn't think.

Now that I've moved, and I'm cooking a lot, I can finally just... exist? I can feel the ways that my brain tries to rip itself apart, works itself up over nothing. Talk to my partner about this ingredient or that and what I grew up doing and realizing "oh... that's not normal". Every meal is good and fine, because I'm making it, and doesn't need to be picked apart because who even does that? It's not a competition, my partner isn't a critic, it's not a race to make the best food possible and improve my craft.

I can just make bread, finally, and not panic over the space being used or the ingredients, or the possibility of failure, because if I fail it's okay.

Anyways, here's some food I made with all this freedom :)

A happy ending, eventually.