It was her mother's recipe

It was her mother's recipe, lauded far and wide among family and friends, talked about at dinner parties, denied to others when asked. When it was time to pass the treasured recipe down there was much fanfare, the secret finally endowed to the precious chosen with obliged anticipation, the proper reverence. Yet when presented, this scrappy thing from decades prior... it revealed itself to be clearly cut from a plastic bag of Tollhouse chocolate chips. So much for proprietary.

And when her secret was discovered, there was only one thing left to do: recopy the recipe into a faded notebook, burn the evidence, and start baking legendary pies.

A lifetime of melancholy part one: a recipe for disaster

There are surefire ways to fall into a numb despair.

The ingredients are always within reach. A bit of not asking for what you want, a dash of not doing all you can. Two tablespoons of bad luck. Large handfuls of laziness and denial. Sprinkle with complacency and mix together in a large pot filled with obligations and you will have a shit soup, a broth of misery you'll drink every day for a very long and lonely winter.

A lifetime of melancholy part one: a recipe for disaster

There are surefire ways to fall into a numb despair. The ingredients are always within reach: a bit of not asking for what you want, a dash of not doing all you can. Two tablespoons of bad luck. Large handfuls of laziness and denial. Sprinkle with complacency and mix together in a large pot filled with obligations and you will have a shit soup, a broth of misery you'll drink every day for a very long and lonely winter.