Sometimes when my mind is full and overwhelmed, I will pull out that wrinkled bag of flour, that’s been torn open impatiently before, and then resealed by hand-rolling and rubber-banding, and sprinkle flour clouds in a pile on the counter and then slice thick hunks of butter and smear it between my fingers and against my palms like something slick. I’ll make a pie crust, because it requires a fine attention to texture and moisture and it has nothing at all to do with CVs and adult decisions like, “When and where will you move to from here?” and “How and when will you meet the people, the person, that you are meant for?”
In fact, all that matters is in the palms of your hands; all that’s decided about that dough and its flakiness and its delicate butteriness is imprinted by your thumbs, by the firm skidding of your hands pushing against each other, against flour and against the fat that smoothes your skin into something softer in a winter made to dry you out completely.
Then, while my slippery fingers flick cool water over the craggy mess of flour clumps, I take the world less seriously, I unwind from my theoretical questioning and advance into a version of myself that is both consciously unconscious and self-consciously unaware of the kind of what-if scenarios that make decision-making from where I stand, as a mid-twenties dough thing — new to this unending realm of possibilities — sick and static and full of nerves.
This is how I find my freezer, full of doughy discs, wrapped in plastic, frozen with intention, arguably, hopeful.