There are times when I’m entirely positive that cooking is the very best metaphor for life.

You try to stick to the recipe set out for you, you end up substituting ingredients for things you either a) already have or b) sound far less gross than nutritional yeast (trust me on this one), one of the middle step goes horribly wrong and you’re positive it’s without hope as you poke at your weirdly pink tomato-based sauce with a stick, then some time goes by and magic happens, and you’re suddenly looking at a delicious meal that makes you seriously proud.

At this point the only difference between my life and the barley I made for lunch today is that I’m not coated in grated parmesan. Not yet anyway.