On Sundays, I meal prep while the rest of the town prays. I’ve long regarded my finicky electric stove as our family altar and La Technique as my holiest of texts.
35 creeps up on you.
It’s a moment past-nubile, but still the middle of the hill. There are no quirky tiaras or headstone t-shirts. 35 is the middle of things — foreshadowing a plot twist or possibly an epic sequel.