A thought while making dinner:
If age were thought of in terms of things gained, instead of time (youth? chances? beauty?) lost, how rich we might think ourselves the older we get. Measured in food alone—considering the things I once hated and now enjoy, sometimes even giddily: dark chocolate, coffee, brussels sprouts, butter, gravy, salad (dark greens—I didn’t even know) avocado—each birthday that rolls around could feel more like a banquet, an unfurling, an arrival.