My Sister Mocked My Kitchen Routine — She Had No Idea I Was Spiraling

Part 1

I was standing completely frozen in aisle four of the grocery store staring at a bright neon bag of candy.

My heart was hammering violently against my ribs while I struggled to take a single deep breath.

This was not a sudden medical emergency or a random panic attack in public.

This was the terrifying realization that the world was finally moving entirely too fast for me to catch up.

The truth is far less romantic than a love for the culinary arts.

All I really like is the absolute sense of control it gives me.

Out there beyond the walls of my small apartment the world is spinning far too fast.

Everything changes before I even have a chance to figure out how it works.

I walked into the grocery store on Tuesday just looking for a simple bag of candy.

I headed straight for the aisle where they keep the familiar blue bags.

My hand hovered over the shelf before I noticed the bright neon packaging.

They had released another new flavor overnight.

Jalapeño-honey crunch was staring back at me from the plastic wrapping.

My breath caught in my throat for a fraction of a second.

It is just candy to most people.

It is a stark reminder to me that I am slowly falling behind.

Every single time they release another absurd flavor I feel the gap widening.

The world is rushing forward and leaving me anchored to the floor in aisle four.

I grabbed my usual groceries with trembling hands.

I needed to get back to my kitchen immediately.

The kitchen is the one place where variables obey my commands.

If I turn the heat to medium-high the onions will caramelize perfectly.

If I add a pinch of salt the bitterness will mellow out.

Cause and effect still exist between the stove and the refrigerator.

I unpacked my bags and laid out the ingredients with surgical precision.

Tonight required something complicated to drown out the noise in my head.

I decided on a mushroom risotto that demanded constant attention.

I stood over the stove and watched the butter melt into the hot pan.

The rich scent filled the air and pushed back the lingering dread.

I tossed the diced shallots into the sizzling fat.

They hissed softly as they hit the metal surface.

I stirred them with a wooden spoon until they turned translucent.

This was the exact kind of predictable transformation I needed to see.

I measured out the arborio rice and poured it into the center.

Every grain had to be coated before I added the first ladle of broth.

I lost myself in the repetitive motion of stirring.

My mind began to wander to strange places as the heat warmed my face.

I thought about a documentary I watched last week about farm animals.

I wondered what happens when sheep get sick.

I am talking about really sick where they cannot just walk it off.

Who else are they supposed to call but the ambulance.

The lamb ambulance.

The absurdity of the thought made me pause for a moment.

I stared down at the bubbling risotto.

The lamb ambulance was a ridiculous concept born from sheer panic.

My grip on the wooden spoon tightened until my knuckles turned white.

The broth was absorbing too quickly.

I reached for the ladle with a sudden burst of urgency.

My elbow clipped the edge of the cutting board.

The heavy chef’s knife spun off the counter and plummeted toward the floor.

I squeezed my eyes shut and waited for the inevitable sound.

The sharp clatter of metal against tile shattered the quiet control of my sanctuary.

I opened my eyes and looked down at the mess on the floor.

The knife had narrowly missed my foot by a fraction of an inch.

It lay there gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lights of the kitchen.

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.

I took a slow breath and tried to steady my trembling hands.

I leaned against the counter and let my head drop forward.

The smell of the risotto suddenly made me feel nauseous.

I realized that even in here I could not control everything.

Gravity and clumsiness were still variables that existed in my world.

I reached out and turned the burner off with a sharp twist of my wrist.

The bubbling in the pan slowly subsided into a thick silence.

I walked away from the stove and left the knife on the floor.

I walked into the living room and collapsed onto the worn fabric of the couch.

The silence of the apartment felt heavier than usual.

I stared at the blank screen of the television.

I could still hear the faint sizzle of the cooling pan in the kitchen.

It sounded like a mockingly slow countdown.

I pulled my knees to my chest and wrapped my arms around my legs.

I felt like a child hiding from a thunderstorm.

The jalapeño-honey candy bag sat on the coffee table mocking me.

I had bought it out of some twisted sense of obligation to keep up.

I reached out and grabbed the crinkling plastic.

I tore the top open with far more force than necessary.

I poured a handful of the colorful candies into my palm.

I tossed one into my mouth and bit down hard.

The flavor was a chaotic mess of sweet and spicy.

It burned the back of my throat and made my eyes water.

I swallowed it down and reached for another one.

I ate them one by one until the bag was half empty.

My stomach churned in protest but I could not stop.

I was punishing myself for failing to maintain the illusion of control.

I finally threw the bag across the room.

It hit the wall and spilled the remaining candies all over the carpet.

I leaned my head back against the couch cushions and closed my eyes.

The spicy sweetness lingered on my tongue like a bad memory.

I needed to clean up the kitchen before Dan got home.

I needed to finish making the risotto and pretend everything was fine.

I needed to pick up the knife from the floor before someone got hurt.

I forced myself to stand up and walk back into the kitchen.

The air in the room was thick with the smell of butter and shallots.

I bent down to pick up the fallen knife.

My fingers closed around the cold metal handle.

I lifted it from the floor and placed it carefully into the sink.

I turned the burner back on under the pan of risotto.

I grabbed the wooden spoon and resumed the repetitive stirring.

The rice was beginning to stick to the bottom of the pan.

I poured another ladle of warm broth over the sticky grains.

The liquid hissed as it hit the hot metal.

I stared into the pan and tried to clear my mind.

I tried to push away the thoughts of the candy and the sheep.

I focused entirely on the circular motion of the spoon.

I told myself that this was the only thing that mattered right now.

I told myself that I could regain control if I just stirred hard enough.

The front door of the apartment suddenly rattled in its frame.

Someone was turning a key in the deadbolt lock.