The Recipe for a Happy Life

Ingredients

1 c nice (but not too nice)
½ c sass (measured with attitude)
¾ c piss and vinegar
¼ c depression (sub anxiety if out)
¾ c excitement
½ c risk
½ c fear

Optional add-ins:

• One mortgage you didn’t fully understand but signed anyway.
• Maybe some kids, a few pets, or one lizard with more emotional intelligence than most coworkers.
• Student loans that never quite bake off.
• One car accident, fender-bender, or sudden roadside existential crisis.
• The slow simmer of a parent’s decline, stirred gently with denial.
• Friends who drift, return, or ghost like yeast that won’t activate.
• A few lovers who leave you full, empty, or both — spice to taste.
• A career that occasionally rises, collapses, and then rises again, slightly misshapen but still edible.

Directions

Preheat life to medium-high chaos. Don’t wait for it to feel ready. It won’t.

Combine nice and sass in a large bowl. Fold in piss and vinegar aggressively until you can’t tell which is which anymore. That’s personality.

Add depression (or anxiety) one tablespoon at a time. Taste as you go.
If it’s too bitter, add excitement to balance.
If it’s too sweet, you’re lying to yourself.

Next, toss in your optional add-ins. Mortgage stress pairs surprisingly well with dark humor. Pets add warmth. Death adds flavor you can’t buy in stores.

Stir in risk and fear simultaneously. They’ll fight each other — let them. The friction is part of the process.
Fold in small joys when no one’s watching: the smell of rain, the text that lands just right, the rare day your body doesn’t ache.

Blend until it forms a paste. Don’t overmix — it’ll lose its texture.
You want it messy, not smooth. Smooth tastes like pretending.

Scrape into whatever pan you’ve got left. It might not be nonstick anymore, but it still holds together. Bake until it rises — or until you stop checking the timer because you finally realized perfection isn’t the goal.

Serve immediately while still warm and uncertain.
Best enjoyed with laughter, forgiveness, and the occasional “what the hell was I thinking.”

Chef’s Notes

• Love burns easily. Handle gently.
• Grief sneaks in like salt — too much ruins the batch, but none at all makes it flat.
• A little regret adds depth. Just don’t let it become the base flavor.
• If everything collapses, scrape what you can into a new bowl. The best recipes are the ones you revise.

Yields: One imperfect, slightly charred, surprisingly tender life.
Best consumed daily with low expectations, high gratitude, and a roll of duct-tape. 💙