Since moving to Brooklyn, my daily commute time has doubled. What was once a 16-minute jaunt to Grand Central Station where my office is located, is now a 35-40 minute endeavor.

The bright side of this commute is that I’m now cruising through books. I look forward to snagging a seat on my morning train and diving into the latest novel on my kindle. I’ve read some great ones recently, so I thought I’d share, since no personal essay-esque substack idea has been coming to mind since the Spicy Tuna Crispy Rice fallout.

The other day, someone asked me what type of books I like, and I couldn’t think of a better way to describe my favorite types of books other than…“addicting ones”.

Ahead, here are 5 addicting books that aren’t thrillers, because I feel like thrillers are sort of a cop out because they’re designed to be addicting. These books pulled me in purely based on writing and characters.

The Most Fun We’ve Ever Had

A long, layered tale of family dynamics in a three daughter home through a few generations. The book goes back and forth from the mother’s perspective between before she had kids, to after. It dives into how her love changed with her husband as a result of a growing family. It spends time in each of the three daughter’s minds and lives. One of the daughters, Wendy, was really nasty to her mother growing up. It made me assess the way I spoke to my mother as a teenager (and sometimes still), and ultimately left me feeling really bad about it. After this 600-pager, I definitely needed a palate cleanser that would take my mind off of all the ways in which I’ve wronged my parents.

Binding 13

Enter: The Palate Cleanser. ‘Binding 13’ sweeps you right in the from the beginning. It takes place in a wealthy high school in Ireland, and ultimately is the unraveling of 15-year-old girl who comes from a broken home, and falls in love with the most popular guy in school, and maybe even in the country, given that he’s one of the best rugby players in all of Ireland. You will cry, you will pulse (😉), you will yearn for more. I recently heard the term “smut”, and I think that probably adequately describes this book, though I haven’t done much research on the exact meaning of the phrase.

Keeping 13

After shedding so many tears from ‘Binding 13’, your heart might try to protect you and tell you to stay away from it’s successor, ‘Keeping 13’. Ultimately, you will not be able to stay away, because you’ll need to know what happens next. I’m telling you: read the sequel. It’s the right choice. You’ll find the proper closure you’re longing for, and all the tears you weeped from the previous book will ultimately be replaced with a heart full of hope.

Mrs. Fletcher

Ohh, baby. This is the story of a hot divorcée, Mrs. Fletcher, who’s son goes away to college, leaving her with an empty home and endless possibilities. Her son, Brendan, is a stereotypical bro who peaked in high school and just can’t really hang in college. We all know the type. While Brendan flails in college, Mrs. Fletcher thrives, diving into the vast world of lesbian pornography, and letting the narrative that she absorbs from watching it dictate the way she lives her life.

A lighthearted, yet deep read. I couldn’t put it down and cruised through it in less than two weeks (that’s quick for me.)

Pineapple Street

A middle class woman marries into an Old Money Brooklyn family, and quickly learns that saying “I do” doesn’t mean you’re in. Think prenups, luxurious townhouses, scandal, some death, all in the setting of the beautiful neighborhood of Brooklyn Heights. It’s a book that may seem surface level and basic, but some real stuff happens. Perhaps you’ll even shed a tear. I don’t remember if I did.

Pineapple Street is a real place, so after the reading the book, you can go see it. It runs parallel to Orange Street and Cranberry Street. Afterward, get dinner at River Deli. It sounds like a bodega, but it’s not. It’s actually a really delicious Italian restaurant where all the pastas are homemade and the specials menu rotates nightly. Get the lasagna. It was the best I ever had. Oh, and bring cash. It’s cash only.

**

That’s all I’ve got for now. I’m currently reading My Year of Rest and Relaxation. So far so good. Let me know what I should read next!

Note: The time of writing this began in July 2025 and ended in February 2026.

The other night at the grand opening of a local restaurant, I decided to confide in my friend after feeling restrained in my mind for many days in a row. I told her how I haven’t been feeling great, mentally, lately, and haven’t felt joy in a while. This melancholy resulted in me not writing, ie, why you all haven’t received a Substack update from me in a while.

Just speaking these words to her and letting it out made me feel lighter. My friend reacted in the exact way I needed — she listened and told me it’s all going to be alright. She didn’t suggest ways to fix my lack of joy or give me instructions on how to move forward. She was just there.

I’ll admit, I was a little nervous to hang out with my friend. She’s gained some recent TikTok success, and I was concerned that the bulk of the dinner discussion would be about that, and I would leave feeling jealous of her for following her dreams, and even worse about myself.

But of course, the opposite happened. And I can confirm that, because I’m sitting here writing again, after I hadn’t allowed myself to for quite a few weeks.

The Restaurant Grand Opening

I’m not usually one to attend restaurant openings. In the off-occasions that it’s actually open to the public, I’d prefer to let the establishment work out its kinks first and hear positive reviews from the mass majority before I grace it with my presence.

But, in the spirit of trying to break up my gloomy disposition, I decided to go with the flow and try the place out.

We found a seat at the bar pretty quickly, and were quite pleased with the menu. I ordered a cucumber-mint cocktail, which always steals my heart. It had rum in it. I didn’t know I liked rum.

My friend and I decided to split the Spicy Tuna Crispy Rice as an appetizer, and a pizza for our main course. Spicy tuna crispy rice is another thing that steals my heart.

The restaurant is Australian, so all of the bartenders had Australian-esque accents. It seemed to be some sort of a requirement by the restaurant owners, to ensure an authentic ambience.

A little while after we ordered, one of the bartenders broke the news to us: they can’t serve us the spicy tuna crispy rice. He said it’s not available right now, but it will be available later. I wasn’t sure what he meant exactly, but I told him we’d like to have it when it’s available. I thought he nodded okay, but future events of the night have now led me to believe that his nod was actually just a mannerism I’d mistaken for affirmation.

Our pizza came out fast, and though it was delicious, I remained disappointed that I wasn’t able to experience the gorgeous-looking crispy rice that I eyed at another table upon my entry. I kept looking back at the kitchen, doing detective work, trying to see if the tuna’s availability had resurfaced.

As the night progressed and the bar became more crowded, more people with accents started to pile up around me. And these accents weren’t just limited to Australian—they were also Irish. Irish men. I figured it couldn’t have been a coincidence that such similar-sounding accents would both attend this bar on the opening night. They had to have had a connection to the establishment. Upon further investigation, I noticed these Irishmen seemed a bit chummy with the bartenders. My intuition was right. These weren’t just normal grand opening attendees—these were VIPs.

Alas, it was time to whip out the old charm that I hadn’t allowed to surface in months, maybe even years, in an effort to utilize these people with accents to get me access to the spicy tuna crispy rice.

I wasted no time. I turned my head to my right, where I felt a presence of one of the Irishmen. Though I can’t remember exactly what I said, it was something along the lines of: “You come here often?”

He explained that he’s been coming to the sister restaurant downtown for years, and wanted to show his support to Tony by being here tonight.

I felt a tingle in my bones.

“Who’s Tony?” I questioned.

“Oh, Tony’s the owner,” he replied.

Jackpot.

I wasted no time getting to the point. I explained to the Irishman that my friend and I were in a sort of dire situation and needed access to the crispy rice as soon as possible. He smiled throughout my telling, possibly thinking it was some sort of joke that I was asking him to text the owner to get us access to the rice.

I needed back up, and fast. I brought my friend into the conversation with the Irishman, hoping she would support my efforts and encourage him to text the owner.

Instead, the opposite happened.

Upon first sight, the two immediately had a connection. The combination of the summer sun and TikTok success had my friend truly glowing from the inside out, and the Irishman seemed to pick up on that. They conversed for a bit while I was standing beside them, though they seemed to be getting off track from the crispy rice to find out where each other was from and such. I tried to remain focused on the task at hand, but found myself also swept up in the details of the Irishman’s life.

The evening carried on and my friend and I mingled and joked with many of the Irishmen and Australians alike, laughing and dancing and pranking these strangers, as I would have in my earlier days when I was more carefree. At some point, I forgot about the crispy rice.

The night ended and my friend and I went our separate ways. I went home without the thing I thought I wanted, but with an emotion I hadn’t experienced in a while: joy. I went to bed feeling lighter than I had in months, and woke up the following morning and wrote.

I never thought my ability to cross the street well would have such a profound impact on my life.

‘Cross the street well’…who says that?

I do, apparently.

I started believing that I’m good at crossing the street back in 2017. It was around the time I started seeing my now-husband, Danny (I give him partial credit for this expertise), when I received a compliment from my former college roommate.

“You’re really good at crossing the street,” she told me, as we scurried across second avenue to catch a ferry we were taking to Governor’s Island.

“Thanks!” I replied, unknowing of how this compliment would play out in my life for years to come.

Back in those days, my bouts of confidence were few and far between. I was just starting out in the workforce, hustling along as a nervous little Production Assistant where I was intimidated by anyone and everyone. If someone wanted to give me a compliment on something as obscure as my ability to cross the street, hell, I’m running with it.

New York City can be a frightening place. Back in my suburbia days, I was someone who was terrified of being honked at while driving on the highway. I used to lose sleep at night if someone even gave me a unkind look on the road. Needless to say, the loud noises and nasty glares in the concrete jungle took a while to adjust to.

When Danny took me under his wing back in ‘17, one thing was for sure: this guy exerted a confidence on the wilin’ streets of New York City that I longed to embody.

Over the years, I’ve found myself approaching a crosswalk not as a confident little girl, but as a woman who knew what she was doing. Ticking hand on the crosswalk light? I’d put some pep in my step (but not too much—that’s embarrassing). Red hand but the traffic light hasn’t turned green yet? Oh, no way in hell am I waiting for the white walk man to appear…I’m making a run for it.

And as this confidence on the streets grew, so did my confidence in the workplace. I used to approach street corners as I did a meeting—like I didn’t deserve to be there. Like everyone else had a right to lead, except for me. Who did I think I was, standing at the front?

Fast forward to present day, and I’ve established that I’m damn good at crossing the street. There’s really no question. But it all came to a head just recently when I was navigating one of the most horrific places on Earth: midtown Manhattan during Christmas.

All of the events in this story are true.

Short on time and in a rush to pick up my Sweetgreen (flex) between meetings, I navigated 42nd street, not letting the spatially unaware tourists occupying it interrupt my record-breaking pace.

Finding myself in the last home stretch of my journey, I had one more street to cross. I was still ways from the intersection away when I saw the blinking hand on the crosswalk sign—which meant that the light would turn to green in a matter of seconds. I had to make a run for it. But like I learned from Danny years prior—we don’t run, we fast walk. So I did exactly that.

As I neared the end of this short crosswalk, one sucker decided to mess with me, startling me to my core. Just inches away from his (I assume it was a man) tinted window, jet black Escalade, he honked his horn right in my face—the long, loud kind that lasts upwards of 7 seconds.

Oh, hell no. This pedestrian right here? She doesn’t take shit from drivers trying to win a dick measuring contest.

I stopped in my tracks. Yes, that’s right—the light was green (I didn’t actually check, but I like to imagine it was). I turned my right calf, keeping my left foot planted forward, so my hips remained square toward the end destination, and I stared right into the driver’s seat. I gave that son of a bitch a nasty look, the nastiest one I’ve ever given perhaps, and just stood there for six long seconds or so. This left him with a choice—either run me over, or wait until I decide to move.

Despite my confident exterior, my heart was beating out of my chest and into my ears and my whole body was shaking. Once I determined it was time, I slowly turned my body to fully face the remainder of the intersection, my gaze on the driver being the last thing to leave his sight. I remained scared as absolute hell, a similar feeling to my early driving days, but jaunted through the rest of the intersection, likening to the idea that I taught that dirty driver a lesson he’ll remember for the rest of his life.

Finally making it to Sweetgreen, I retrieved my salad, headed back to the office, and lead that meeting like a champ.

Editor’s Note: I wrote that I never run across the street for dramatic effect, but sometimes I do do it. Danny, however, rarely does it.

Dancing comes really easily to me. But it wasn’t always that way.

I have distinct memories of myself as a 10, 11, 12 year-old at sleep away camp, living with a bunk of girls who participated in Dance as their main sport. As the only serious soccer player in the bunk, I was “the athletic one”. But when it came to our all-too-often dance classes at camp, I was “the pathetic one”—at least in my mind.

I watched these girls manage to pick up the eight counts of the choreography in just one try, while I stood in the back of the room, barely moving my arms, deeming myself too cool and not good enough all at once. I pronounced to myself that athletic people couldn’t also be smart, and these girls were the smart ones because they could memorize the dance moves, and I wasn’t. Looking back now, I’m sad that I thought this about myself. But don’t worry, it all worked out.

All of the events in this story are true.

Because of these dreaded camp dance classes as a kid, alongside the pains and shames of life as an angsty teenager, I believed for most of my life that dancing just wasn’t for me. Whenever I’d find myself in scenarios where the lights went down and the music got louder, my heart would drop, palms would sweat, and I’d find someone to pretend I cared about having an important conversation with and summon them to the corner of the room, talking their ear off for an hour or so. If you were a friend of mine in high school, you may be familiar with this move.

But over time, something snapped.

Over the last four years of living in my now not-so-new apartment, I started unintentionally working on my dance moves. Whenever I’d find a moment alone, I’d put on music, drag our coffee table to the corner of the living room, and let my freak flag fly. There was no one to judge me, no one to tell me I didn’t get the eight counts right. I found myself doing twists and turns, interpretive dances, ass-shaking, wide-leg jumps, and so much more, throughout every inch of my living room, taking my practice as seriously as a Broadway performer. And what I discovered: I’m damn good at it.

I’m not good at it because I’m Dancing With the Stars level or anything. I’m good at it because I allow myself to do it all without judgement. Since I’ve practiced this so much in the safety of my own home alone, I now find myself grooving toward the center of almost every dance floor I’m on, unable to contain the way the music makes my body move. And over time, dancing has become more than just dancing for me. It’s now my truest form of meditation. I’ve found it’s one of the only ways I can really let myself feel free, forget about all of my problems and the trials and tribulations that life throws at me, and just move to the music. When I’m sad, I dance. When I’m mad, I dance. When I’m feeling eerie, I dance. And guess what? I always end up feeling a little lighter, a little better afterwards.

So, while I was at a work event a few weeks ago, I was manning the podcast recording that the CEO of my company was doing with some sort of wellness guru (it was a wellness event). For the last question of the recording, the CEO asked the guru: how do you get into your flow state (the activity you do when you don’t realize time passes by, and nothing else matters)? And though I wasn’t really paying attention prior to this, his answer made my head turn.

“By dancing,” he said.

My CEO was shocked that this grown, buff, longevity bro admitted how much he loves dancing. He explained the science behind it, how dancing engages the neural networks of your brain, and helps alter your brain function in a super positive way.

Though I didn’t actually know any of this, it made sense.

After the recording ended, the two continued talking about the power of dance—the CEO remained shell shocked by the benefits of it.

I almost chimed in and told the longevity wellness bro that I too, love dance, and use it as a form of meditation. But then I decided against it.

I thought, let’s just keep this between us, Jen. If I said it out loud, and started tying it to another wellness fad, it may take away the magic of it to me.

Dancing comes really easily to me. But it wasn’t always that way.

This weekend, I laughed a lot. More than I had in months, actually.

I was at a bachelorette party in Newport, Rhode Island, for a long-time friend from high school who historically ran in a different circle than me.

The source of my laughter can’t be pinpointed to one reason. I think it was the shared energy of the entire group, the thrill of being a newcomer in a a situation (I barely knew most of the girls), combined with an active attempt to remain present and find joy in the midst of stressful times (planning a wedding and other things have my anxiety levels at all-time highs.)

There was one cousin, Brianna, whom I particularly enjoyed conversing with. I couldn’t quite say why, but I felt at ease around both her and her twin sister, Angelica, who was also on the trip.

Because I was so drawn to Brianna, I felt comfortable being close to my true self around her, and therefore making jokes at her expense. It’s a risk, playing pranks on near strangers, but one I was willing to take.

All of the events in this story are true.

At dinner about halfway through the weekend, I was seated next to Brianna, and across from her sister, Angelica. The restaurant was very loud and we could barely hear what the girls were discussing at the other end of the table, so our conversations were contained to just our respective sides. At some point in the evening, we got to talking about workout classes and which ones we like and don’t like. Brianna expressed that she absolutely despises heated classes, and would rather do anything in the world than hot yoga. Noted.

Later in the night, Julie — the maid of honor and planner — got a text informing her that our scheduled private yoga class for the following day was now in flux. The instructor had a personal issue come up. Instead of coming to our Airbnb as previously planned, the yoga studio was offering for us to come to them. We all slightly deliberated, then carried on with our meal.

At one point, Julie got another update from the yoga studio. Since I was closer to the middle of the table, I bore the responsibility of relaying any yoga-related updates to my end of the table. (It was loud in the restaurant and Brianna had previously told me that she has bad hearing.)

“What’s she saying? I can’t hear anything,” Brianna asked me.

“She said the class tomorrow is hot yoga,” I replied.

Her happy-go-lucky nature transformed into dread.

“Oh my god, are you serious?” she asked. I shook my head yes, and took a bite of my pasta.

She explained how she really can’t do heated workouts, and is going to be sliding all over the place due to her tendency to excessively sweat.

Twenty minutes or so passed by, and Julie said something to the table that Brianna couldn’t hear. It didn’t matter what she said, I used it as another opportunity.

“What’s she saying?” Brianna asked me, ever so trusting.

“She said the hot yoga class tomorrow is going to be 108 degrees,” I replied.

A contained panic ensued. Her twin sister, seated across from us, took notice of Brianna’s exasperation and asked what was wrong.

“Did you know the class tomorrow is HOT yoga?!” Brianna asked her sister.

For a millisecond, her sister had a perplexed look on her face. She looked at me, I quickly and slyly winked at her, and that was all she needed.

“Oh yeah, you didn’t know?” her sister asked.

“WHAT?! You knew and didn’t tell me? You KNOW I can’t do hot yoga!” she replied, with a certain venom in her voice that’s likely only reserved for family.

And that’s when I felt it—the joy rising from my stomach into my heart, finding its way out in laughter. It was a warm reminder of the old me—the one who painted her world with harmless pranks and laughter that kept her alive, even if shared with no one but herself. This kind of laughter was especially fun because I couldn’t let Brianna know it was happening. I bit my lip, turned away, and let the giggles escape me in the form of quiet snorts.

The night carried on while I rested the prank, making a point not to bring up the heated class as not to make it obvious. Every now and then, Brianna would confide in me and tell me that she’s *really* not looking forward to the yoga class tomorrow. Each time, I’d use that as an opportunity to raise the temperature just a bit. What started at a 108 degree room, was now closing in on a 120 degree room.

At the end of the night, the group was gathered in our pajamas in the living room of the Airbnb, recapping the evening’s events. I used it as my chance.

“Oh my god, did you hear?! Yoga is going to be 130 degrees tomorrow morning. I’m going to die,” I whispered to Brianna, when everyone else had gotten up to grab water and such.

Her eyes widened. “Is that legal?”

At that moment, Julie returned to the room. “Is what legal?” she asked.

“I don’t think I can do the hot yoga class tomorrow,” Brianna blurted.

“Oh, we ended up cancelling the class,” Julie replied. Brianna let out a huge and audible sigh of relief, relaxing for the first time all night. Julie paused.

“Wait, hot yoga? What? It was just regular yoga,” replied Julie.

Finally, my suppressed chuckles could be released to the world. I let out a really long snort, that instantly turned into hardcore laughter. Brianna looked at me.

“Wait, were you fucking with me?

My continued laughter, keeled over, eyes closed, couldn’t breathe — was the confirmation she needed.

Luckily, she took it well, after the realization fully set in. “You know, I had the thought that you were fucking with me. But then I said to myself: ‘there’s no way that this stranger I met a single day ago would possibly be fucking with me.’” That line only made me laugh harder.

As the group caught on to the prank I’d pulled, we all ruminated and laughed uncontrollably. I barely knew any of these girls, but we now shared a moment of pure, unadulterated joy that no social media algorithm could manufacture.

At the end of the weekend, I felt a little sad to leave Brianna and the other girls, fearful that I wouldn’t laugh like that again anytime soon. But on my solo train ride home, I reflected: sometimes, people pass in and out of your life briefly for a reason. In my habit of constant overthinking and self-critiquing, I’d forgotten that it’s okay to loosen the reins in my mind, and to find joy in tiny moments, even when life feels overwhelming. This weekend reminded me of that—to reconnect with the part of myself I’d almost forgotten. Hello, little Jen. I’ve missed you.

I’ve always been a fan of little cookies. I’m talking, the tiny, bite-sized butter cookies that are meticulously topped with rainbow sprinkles. Growing up, during the holidays, my father’s duties included going to a local Italian bakery in New Jersey and buying an assorted box of cookies. I always attended this outing to ensure the proper butter cookies were purchased. If they had long sprinkles instead of the little circular ones, they were deemed not worthy in the court of Jen. In New Jersey, there was no shortage of bakeries where you could buy a box of assorted cookies and pick your own. They had a whole display case and you could walk 500 feet in either direction picking cookies for your box. It was basically my Super Bowl.

Now residing in New York City, when I have a special occasion where I shouldn’t show up empty-handed, it feels like a no-brainer to bring a box of specially-picked out assorted cookies. In a city full of dessert shops on every corner, I didn’t blink an eye at the possibility that this would be, well, impossible.

All of the events in this story are true.

Crumbly Bakery

There’s a local shop in my neighborhood called Crumbly Bakery (not to be mixed up with the infamous, franchised Crumbl Cookie). It’s a tiny coffee shop that stole my heart from day one, after I ordered a large M&M cookie and an iced latte that both seriously hit the spot. It was another plus that they had a small window of assorted baked goods, and though I didn’t study it then and there, I made a mental note that this would be the perfect place to come for the next time I was attending an outing and needed to bring something.

So, of course, when I had an event at my friend’s house, I decided to venture to this shop. But I was disappointed upon arrival to find, in fact, that barely any of the assorted goods in the window were actually cookies. There were mini key lime pies, and mini cheese cakes, which are great, but when I’m making a two and a half hour trek to the Jersey shore via train, they are not ideal. I asked the worker about where their tiny cookies were, sure that this was some mistake. She pointed me to a small, sad corner of the shop where they had two, maybe three sorts, of dare I say, gross-looking cookies.

I was saddened, but I was on a time crunch and had to act fast. I moved quickly, across Second Avenue to another bakery that has a huge selection, one I was completely sure would satisfy my needs.

Angelina’s Bakery

I headed into the famous Angelina’s bakery. I had gone in before, and had left feeling really positive about their cookie selection. It’s also important to say that I had already crowned this shop the title of Best Cannolis in The World (or at least in the tri-state area).

I didn’t think that there was any chance in hell that they could let me down. Oh, how sadly I was mistaken.

Upon arrival in this Italian bakery, I had the mindset that I would get a few cannolis for the group, along with an assortment of their sprinkle and white chocolate icing cookies. I’d had them before and instantly fell in love.

To my complete and utter shell shock, they only had strawberry-flavored cannolis left. Okay, I can do without the cannolis, that’s fine. But when I noticed that the cookie trays were replaced with…more pastries, the sadness I developed at Crumbly started to turn into anger.

I began to notice a pattern, and new questions started to pop into my mind. Perhaps there’s not enough interest in the little cookies anymore, so Angelina’s was forced to pivot to a more pastry-centric display. Needless to say, an establishment I once respected, had moved to my Do Not Return list. Sorry, Angelina’s. I don’t make the rules.

Mia’s Bakery

I had one last solution. Mia’s Bakery, I was sure would be a safe bet. If you’re familiar with Martha’s Country Bakery of Brooklyn, where they have a selection of baked goods nearly a mile long, Mia’s is in that similar vain. There’s a window display facing the street with all sorts of extravagant cakes and pies.

Upon entry, I had to tell a maître d’ what my intentions were. Did I want to sit at a table and place a dessert order with waiter? Or did I want to order at the counter? She explained that if I chose to order myself at the counter, I would have to take it to go. I could not sit down. When I enter a bakery, a place that’s supposed to be full of love and sweetness, I do not want to be pestered with questions and forced to make a decision about how I’ll enjoy my dessert before I even choose one.

Back to the story. I was placed at the end of a very long line that was moving extremely slowly. Another point deduction for Mia’s Bakery. With each inch I moved in the line, my heart was dropping further into my stomach. No sign of delectable-looking cookies in sight. Just slices of cakes, cannolis, and mini pies.

As I inched toward the front of the line, I saw my saving grace. There was a display of what looked to be assorted butter cookies behind the cashier. Jackpot. I would just tell the cashier what I wanted and use his guidance to help me pick the best box I possibly could. Easy peasy.

When I finally made it to the front of the line, my hope was completely lost. The assortment of cookies they had on display was shameful. No cookies had tiny sprinkles, not even mini M&M or chocolate chip cookies. Just jelly. And some powdered sugar. And even worse, some of the cookies disgracefully had long sprinkles. Orange and brown-colored.

Unfortunately, I was at a standstill, with no place left to turn. I sorrowfully picked out a few of the grotesque looking cookies, and asked them to box them up.

A few hours later

As I arrived at my friend’s house for our big reunion weekend, I handed her the box of cookies, shameful and embarrassed. Though the printing on the box read in big, fancy letters “Mia’s New York City Bakery”, I knew the truth. These cookies were not made with the simplicity and tenderness that I wanted to put forward.

My friends ate the cookies happily, making claims that they were “delicious” and “so good”. I let them tell their lies, because that’s what friends do.

But all of this got me to thinking: are little butter cookies done for? Big cookie franchises like Levain and Chip City and Crumbly have taken over the landscape with cookies the size of a fist and loaded with toppings and drizzles and special surprises. Somewhere along the way, the industry became convinced that if the cookie isn’t big and Instagrammable, it’s not worth serving.

In a world full of flashing lights and brand deals and influencers telling you that you need the big gawky item to be happy, I’ll let the tiny butter cookies serve as my reminder—joy doesn’t have to be loud to be real.

Tiny butter cookies with sprinkles, I’ll never give up on you. I’ll bake you myself if I have to.

At my old job, I was quiet, kept my head down, and did the work. I performed well in the workplace mostly out of anxiety, because I really couldn’t handle people talking or thinking negative things about me. So, this was a way to control what people think. I also believed deep in my core that nothing I have to say is actually of value, so I most often did not speak up. My managers always struggled with this combination of my strong work ethic and extreme quietude, and this had been brought up in multiple professional reviews over the years, at every job I’d ever held.

It had been about a year into working with my boss, who was an extreme gossip and played favorites, when, luckily, I had made it to her favorite list. She would shoot the shit with me and choose me for high-level projects.

Don’t get me wrong, she was still superior to me, so naturally, I told myself I can’t be myself around her and remained intimidated in her presence, but I did show her my soft side in little ways.

All of the events in this story are true.

It was an ordinary day at the office when I came upon a chocolate bar while in the kitchen. I opened it, ate one square, then decided I didn’t want it anymore.

Back at my desk, I looked around. No one was near me, not even my boss, whose desk was situated right behind mine. So, I placed the opened, barely eaten chocolate bar on her desk, and said nothing to anyone. I went about my day, as one would after something so insignificant.

Hours later, after my boss returned to her desk from an onslaught of meetings, she was startled to see the chocolate bar sitting there. Her first reaction was to ask around.

“Who put this half eaten chocolate bar on my desk?”

I, of course, was at my desk, and swiveled my wheelie chair to face her, a confused look plastered on my face.

“I’m not sure, I didn’t see anyone put it there,” I replied. I wheeled my chair closer to get a better look, playing up my confusion.

“That’s weird, someone just randomly put this on your desk?” I asked.

My boss was motivated. She held her head high and with confidence, and skated around the vicinity asking around.

“Did anyone see who put this chocolate bar on my desk,” she asked our co-workers, who were working diligently at their desks, confused by her ultra-specific question. She held up the chocolate bar like it was evidence from a crime scene. They shook their heads no and went back to their work.

She then wrote in a company-wide slack channel, asking who put the half-eaten chocolate bar on her desk. No one responded.

There, I sat at my desk, smirking to myself and enjoying my private comedy show.

My boss went about her day, though she would bring up the chocolate bar every 45 minutes or so, still utterly confused by its appearance. Anyone who walked by her desk, she would stop them in their tracks to ask: “did you see who put this on my desk?” Their blank reactions were all the same.

Hours went by, her question still unanswered. She eventually gave up as other work tasks consumed her headspace, ultimately accepting the perpetual puzzlement that she was left with. I, however, was bursting on the inside, constantly thinking about the masterful prank I’ve pulled, secretly cackling to myself and holding onto the little bit of joy I’d created in an otherwise mundane day.

At the end of the workday, I packed up my stuff and prepared for my impromptu grand exit, which I decided right then and there. I zipped up my backpack, put on my coat, and announced my departure.

“Bye, everyone have a good night,” I said to the group.

“Bye Jen!” my coworkers sang in unison.

As I neared the exit, I turned to look back at the group of coworkers I was leaving.

“Oh, and Boss?” I said.

She looked up at me.

I winked, the long exaggerated type of wink, the kind where your mouth is wide open, and then turned around and kept walking.

Though her processing was silent, her realization emanated throughout the vicinity.

“Oh. My. God.” I heard whispers quickly ignite laughter that spread like a fire blazing as I exited the building.

Exactly one month later, I got laid off from this job, but that’s a story for another time.

Okay, first up, you need to purchase your Swordfish. Whole Foods usually has these babies, as well as Fairway, and for my midwestern readers, I’m sure your local Jack N’ Jill Shitaake Mushroom chain offers it. Now, there are a few notes about this. One: Swordfish is usually previously frozen in the U.S., unless you’re purchasing it from a super high-end fish store. This is because the swordies swim in warm waters, far, far away from the U.S, so the fisherman freeze it immediately upon catching to preserve quality and meet FDA guidelines for parasite control. That being said, don’t let the “previously frozen” label turn you off from buying it.

And my second tip is to go for the fish with a red streak on it. Brown streaks=bad news, stay away.

Now, for those jerks out there who say “Swordfish is too steak-like,” I officially give you permission to tell those assless chaps where they can shove it. Maybe they haven’t prepped it the proper way, or maybe they just are close minded, but I feel personally victimized when people verbally attack my beloved Swordies. They have feelings too, I’m quite positive, and people shouldn’t say such hurtful things about them.

Okay, now that you’ve purchased your swordfish, you need to buy your sweet potatoes and brussel sprouts. As much as I love bossing people around, I’m not going to tell you how to do that. This one’s on you.

Before you head out of the grocery store, you need to snag one more crucial ingredient: Banchan’s Japanese BBQ sauce. I usually get the original, though recently I’ve been leaning into the “Miso BBQ” and have found it quite enjoyable. I’ll give you a little creative freedom here, buy whichever makes your heart feel the most open.

Now, before you come at me with “you seriously think I would purchase a sauce…from a grocery store?”, I’ll just have you know that all of the ingredients are actually pronounceable, and there are no crapshoot involvements in the making of this sauce. The Banchan family swears so.

If you want to be a huge jerk about it and insist on only using homemade sauce, then you can simply whisk together soy sauce (or coconut aminos), honey, sesame oil, maybe some mirin if you have it, rice vinegar, some ginger paste, a lil of this, a lil of that, and you’ve got yourself a flavorful marinade. (Just taste as you go and add what you want, k?)

Okay, so you’re in the kitchen, you’ve got a clean counter and the world is your oyster. Your first step is to lightly salt and pepper the Swordies on both sides. Once you do that, drop them in a bowl and cover them with the bbq sauce. Just be generous with the sauce, okay? Make sure all pieces of the swordie are covered. You’ll want to let it marinade for about 30 minutes.

Now, please preheat your oven to 400. If your oven takes a long time to heat up, you should have done this yesterday. So get on that.

We Be Brusselin’

Whilst the oven is preheating, it’s time to prep your brussels. Here are simple instructions on how to do so:

• Thoroughly wash them with water

• Pat them dry with a paper towel.

  • Depending on your level of impatience, you may or may not be able to successfully dry every single brussel. I do not, and it’s just something I have to live with.

• Once wash and dried, peel off outer layer of each brussel (this removes the dirtiest layer).

• Lay them out on a baking sheet, spray with olive oil or avocado oil. Sprinkle generously with salt, pepper, garlic powder.

• Make sure every brussel is face down on the baking sheet, to ensure maximum crispiness once baked.

Once the oven is preheated, place them in for about 20 minutes.

It’s Fry Time

Okay, now we’re onto the sweet potato fries. Your first step: peel off the skin.

Once peeled, slice them the long way, and then again into the size of the fry you want.

Since the brussels are already cooking, you have to act quickly here. Get the fries on an aluminum or parchment lined baking sheet, whip out your avocado oil (or olive oil), and COVER THEM! Then, add salt, pepper, and garlic powder. SPREAD IT AROUND WITH YOUR HANDS! Make sure every inch is covered with the salt-pepper-garlic-oil flavor blast. Wash hands. Place oven mitt on hands. Transport fry baking sheet into oven.

In for 20 minutes, but please eyeball them.

The last homestretch

This is it, the moment we’ve been waiting for. It’s time to cook those swordies. Please heat oil in pan on stove.

Once the oil is hot as absolute hell (at least heated for 3 minutes), place the fish on the pan. For your standard two and a half inch thick swordie, cook it for about 3 minutes on each side. But please, for the love of G-d, cut the swordie in half while it’s on the stove if you have to, to see if it’s cooked before serving. I don’t know if that’s a professional chef-approved tip, but it’s something I do often. It should be white in the center.

So that’s pretty much it. Once everything is cooked to your liking, you may plate all of the items. As I have stated multiple times throughout this blog, I am a big proponent of taste-as-you-go© method. Yes, you may risk burning yourself or your tongue, but it is worth it for the end result of an absolutely delectable meal.

Thanks for reading, and let me know if you make this. If you’ve made it this far, you may also enjoy my taco recipe. I appreciate your time and consideration.

Your friend,

Jen

First of all, I never claimed to be a health nut, so watch what you say. And second of all, there’s something so soothing about whipping up a mixture of meat and vegetables and cheese in a tortilla, and calling it tacos for the pure simplicity of it, even though I know damn right it’s not an authentic taco.

I’d like to share how I make them, and perhaps inspire you to try it out.

First step: you need state-of-the-art, gourmet tortillas. Forget everything you know about Mission brand tortillas. Sure, they taste good. But wait until you try what Whole Foods has to offer.

My go-to for tortillas is the Tacombi brand, which they usually sell at Whole Foods. But readers be warned: they have recently only been offering them only in the burrito sized-wrap, and that is an absolute f*ck no. A tortilla of that size would completely throw off the ratio of carbohydrates to meat.

That being said, if you can’t find the Tacombi brand, or if you already know that brand and just all around hate it, I’d also like to suggest Maria & Ricardo’s tortillas. I’m a flour tortilla girl, but if you’re a stickler for that type of thing, please disregard my tortillic advice and be on your merry way with whichever wrap of your choosing (but please g-d let it not be Mission).

Okay, now for the other internal players. I’m going to try to make this simple. The next step is to chop your veggies. Out of the yearning for a straightforward, effortless meal, I always go with the tried and true Red Pepper and White Onion combo. So, top priority is to chop your peppers and get those babies on the stove with olive oil, medium heat. They take a bit of time! Don’t forget to add salt and pepper, and hell, maybe even paprika.

Now, while the peppers are sizzling, you need to spring into action mode and get your rice-a-roni prepped. Yes, you heard that right: rice-a-roni. It’s a manageable, enjoyable boxed pasta-like-rice sort of item that incorporates a fun sense of nostalgia into the meal, which is needed, because we’re all just a little too serious nowadays. It also adds a salty softness to the taco that your standard Mexican rice just doesn’t give you. So, please read the box for instructions, but if you simply can’t be bothered, I’ll quickly break it down for you:

• In a bowl, add the rice and one small cube of butter (I use a thin cube out of love for my arteries).

• Put it in the microwave for one minute, take it out, stir.

• Then, pour in the required measure of water (you must see box for this as exact measurement, sorry), and put it in for a whopping 18 minutes.

• Take it out, let it sit for a few, and bam! You have yourself a knockoff gourmet rice.

Now, while you’re waiting for the rice to cook, your instinct may be to sit on the couch and wait. I’m sorry to tell you, but this is onion time. You must chop your white onion and cook it. For two people, I usually do about half an onion. Get those babies on the stove after the peppers have softened a bit. And make sure to add salt, pepper, and any other spices of your choosing during this stage too. You must season at every step!

At this point in your journey, things are coming together. And I hope you’re keeping an eye on that microwave time, because, when the timer hits 7:00 minutes remaining or so, it’s go time baby. Quickly, stab open your ground turkey or chicken with the knife you used to chop your veggies.

Done? Great. Now, In the pan, push all of the cooked veggies to the perimeter, so it forms a circle like so:

Once the circle is formed, maybe add a dab of oil if your heart tells you to, and dump that ground meat into the open circle. Take your spatula, and stab that meat! Break it up into little parts and keep turning it until it has seemingly browned. Add salt and pepper! And when it feels safe, undo the circle and start mixing the meat with the veggies. Does this make sense? I hope so.

Now, you’re officially in the last home stretch, mile 25. By now, your seven minutes should be up and you should have taken out the Rice-a-roni, and let it sit. Many of the greats debate whether or not you should let it sit before giving it a good mix, but I tend to lean toward letting it rest.

Everything is coming together, and now we’re onto prepping the cheese (by prepping I mean getting it out of the fridge). You’ve got two options here. You could either use a pre-shredded cheese of your choosing, or you can get real professional and grate your own. Either way, I like to use something sharp like cheddar. Manchego and montery jack would also suffice. But this is where you really get creative freedom, so follow your heart in this step.

It’s time, for the final step: crisp up that tortilla. On your stove, turn the gas on, and throw that baby directly on there. Let it sit for about 20 seconds, and then flip it, so you get a nice burn on both sides.

Tortilla=crisped. Now, all you gotta do is add your meat-veggie mixture, top it off with some cheese and ‘roni, and you’re good to go. It’s officially couch time!

I hope you’re able to enjoy these tacos. I understand this recipe was kind of out of left field and a bit chaotic, so please do let me know if you have any questions or concerns.

Until next time,

Your Friend,

Jen

Now, in the newfound, 4-years into therapy era of ~Jen~, if you haven’t learned yet, I don’t like to stick to do what everybody else is doing. I mean, I do improv, for Christ’s sake. If it’s mainstream in certain senses, I don’t want any part of it. And this does not include my perpetual loyalty to Taylor Swift, because me and Tay have been besties since I was 15, when she guided me through my first crush on a senior boy, which was forever unbeknownst to him (of both my existence and my crush).

So, while I actively declared my distaste for Roan strictly because everyone else liked her, I was simultaneously, and am always, on the hunt for music that speaks to me. I’m talking, speaks to my soul, touches me to my core. (Think: Mt. Joy, Caamp, and some others.) Now, it’s rare for me to find this type of music, so when I do, I listen nonstop and make it my entire personality for a few weeks until my fiancé Danny finally asks me to stop.

But something happened just last week. And no, I’m not horrified to say it.

It was an ordinary winter Saturday nowadays for Jen, where I plot myself on the floor, whip out my paint and brushes, and put on some music. As the Spotify-selected soundtracks were shuffling this particular Saturday, I found myself unconsciously getting up, and dancing slowly to the beat. Fast forward some 45 seconds later, and I am in an all out grinding session with the air to ‘Pink Pony Club’. Enough said, this song hit, and my heart was officially open to the Chappell.

In this song, Chappell sings about how she needs to move to Santa Monica and dance on the tables at the Pink Pony Club, because it’s where she feels most herself and where she belongs. Okay, cute. But when she addresses her mother’s distaste for her decision, is when the song really spoke to me.

“Won't make my mama proud, it's gonna cause a scene. She sees her baby girl, I know she's gonna scream: God, what have you done? You're a pink pony girl. And you dance at the club.”

In which Chappell replies: “Oh mama, I'm just having fun, on the stage in my heels.
It's where I belong.”

Now, in my never ending pursuit to romanticize every tidbit of my life (things are way more interesting that way), I compare this lyrical sensation to the wedding planning process that I’m currently going through. My parents are kindly throwing Danny and I a nice wedding, but it comes with one stipulation: the wedding has to be “normal”. (See paragraph 2: Jen doesn’t like normal.)

So, like an ingrown pimple that’s been preparing to come to a head for a long time, our familial Thanksgiving gathering was when the wedding planning pimple became too much for me to handle, and it popped. When I told my mother of a certain wish I had for my wedding, she responded with: “No, that’s not normal. That’s not traditional.” And, thanks to my previously mentioned 4-years of therapeutic work, alongside the help of my new friend Chappell guiding me to be my own person, I responded with: “I’m not normal. Why would I want to do something normal?”

Needless to say, my mother was not happy with that response, and it triggered an unruly, high-pitched conversation in which we both highlighted many of each other’s wrongdoings. Despite the guilt that bubbled inside me for going against my parents, I left the conversation feeling damn proud of myself.

So, the next time you see me dancing ferociously to ‘Pink Pony Club’ when absolutely no one asked me to, just know, this song has lit something in me, and I’ll never let that light go out.

EDITOR’S NOTE: This post has been altered since publication to remove the mention of p*t.

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