Every Action Has An Equal and Opposite Reaction

Sometimes - scratch that - most times, there's just no way of knowing the ways in which our actions, or our lack of action, will change our lives. It's part of what's amazing, what's beautiful, what's miraculous, and what's fucked up about our lives here while we're living them.

It's amazing to think of all that we're capable of in life.

It's fucked up to think of all that we're capable of in life.

It's all a mystery. It's all chance. Ot at the very least, it's chance with a twinge of intent. It's kind of like my friend Tyler from Tennessee who tried to let go of his southern drawl when he moved to Massachusetts; his accent will always be laced with a hint of Tennessee. You can take the boy outta Tennessee, but you can't take the Tennessee outta the boy's accent. It's the same with chance and fate; there's always some fate lingering behind a remnant, elongated vowel sound.

If you look at things the right way, there will always something you can't control that leads to something else that seems like it should have always been, but wouldn't ever have existed had it not been for that chance. That moment. That split second where you went right instead of left; up instead of down; one block instead of two... you get the idea.

I take my Chance shaken - not stirred - straight up, with a twist of Fate. Though, lately, this new bartender's been giving me the cheap house Chance and it's all comin' to me on the rocks, with no Fate.

It's rough.

Okay, so fine, the Universe has a plan, I trust in that, I guess. Maybe that's called "fate," I don't know. It's debatable, but not here, not now. Besides, this post isn't about fate, it's about a shitstorm, and how to see a silver lining in a cloud of poo.

Yesterday, in preparation for some Superbowl watching, I decided to make chili and cornbread. I've never made chili before. Cornbread, yes. Chili, no. I'm freaked out by things that stew. I like adding precise amounts of things so that certain baking-science-related shit happens and an exact thing happens as a result - I like baking. Not stewing. Not souping. Not roasting.

So, I called Tiffany, my chili-making bestie, for her recipe. Turns out - Tiffany's "recipe" is really just a list of ingredients that go in a pot together in a certain order. Some beer, some chili powder, some beans, some turkey, some chorico, some tomato paste, some tomato, some onion, some pepper, some jalapeno.

Luckily, when I made the chili, my mom was here, and she's the kind of "Oh, just throw some in there," kind of cook, so it made it all okay. She coached me through approximation cooking, adding water here and there, more tomato paste, a little more cumin. Before I knew it, the chili smelled like chili, and then, not long afterward, it looked and tasted like chili. I made the cornbread using my exact methods of baking, and then later topped the whole meal off with cupcakes and homemade frosting.

I like cooking. And, everything turned out to be pretty delicious. Even the chili.

Today, while I was in the midst of a leftover chili lunch and some tortilla chips, I got some shitty news. Later, I found out about three other people who got fucked up news today. Like, the kind of news that makes you cry so hard you have to do your eye makeup all over again. (Which, for me, is like starting with a blank canvas and painting a fucking Picasso - not something I do without begrudging the jackass who made it all possible by causing the tears in the first place.)

So, like I was saying in the side note - February 8th is a shit day in not just my book, but three other people's as well. So there.

Anyway, generally after receiving shit news, I have to talk about it. I have to tell people, I have to talk to my friends and family about it, I have to lament, discuss. I get all worked up and slowly but surely, the more I discuss the topic, the more sense it begins to make as one of those moments where I should just recognize the fate. I should just shut the hell up and be grateful for the chance at change; the change that might be the reason for something else way more awesome.

I realized that life is not unlike making a big, giant pot of chili. Someone can give you the gist of it, the general order that a bunch of stuff is supposed to cook in, and you can do your best to assemble all those things together at once, and in the correct order - but it doesn't mean that shit is gonna taste good. You might not know how each ingredient is going to effect the batch before you put it in, but someone will be there - in my case, my mom - saying "Oh, I'd say about a tablespoon," and you'll listen - because that person has made chili before - and you'll taste it again and decide what to do. Or when to stay and do nothing. Or when to fold. Or when to just say "fuck it," and throw another bunch of jalapeno in the pot.

Life is like chili. It is.

No, really... it is. Think about it...