The afternoon I came home from the hospital after my second jaw surgery, I spent several hours watching The Great British Baking Show Masterclass, in which Paul and Mary adorably create their own (perfect) versions of the various challenges they gave the bakers that week. Comfortably loaded up on Percocet, after watching Paul masterfully create a walnut-roquefort bread, I decided that in 2018 I would become a master bread maker.

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The state of the world, you guys. It’s been hard enough to justify doing my actual work these days, because somehow putting together a narrative as to why a deal between ABC company and XYZ company makes strategic sense just doesn’t seem very important in the grand scheme of things. Never mind finding it in me to wax poetic about some really great food I made when people in this country (and those unfortunately now stuck in limbo outside of it) are fearing for their futures. But in between phone calls to the full mailboxes of my elected officials and typing my credit card number into the donations pages of the ACLU and the IRC, I’ve got to keep on moving. Mincing garlic, stirring rice, kneading dough.

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