It's late June. The books are done. All twelve of them, polished and ready. My publisher has the covers. The launch is weeks away.
And I'm tired in a way that sleep doesn't fix.
So I pull out the crockpot. I grab sausage and peppers—simple, honest ingredients that don't require much from me but deliver something wholesome and good. The kind of meal you make when you need to eat, but you don't have the energy to perform. When you just need to take care of the people you love without it being complicated.
This is what the final weeks before launch looked like: minimal. Functional. Nourishing without being fancy. Staying present without overthinking. Just getting through, just keeping us fed, just holding the space until the next thing arrives.
Cairo stations himself nearby with the solemn patience of a gentleman awaiting a formal invitation to taste-test. Odin and Frey patrol the kitchen for anything that might fall. My husband brings me a cold drink. My daughter asks if she can help.
The crockpot does the work while I do mine. We're both just showing up and doing what we're built to do.
By the time lunch is ready, I remember why I started this: for meals shared. For people fed. For the quiet moments of care that hold a life together. The books were the big work. But this—the sausage and peppers, the simple Tuesday lunch, showing up for the people I love—this is what it was all for.