I travel in pink

This is not about pasta

I am almost 26 years old. My birthday is in a few weeks. I will finally join all my friends who have made it past the mid-point of our twenties. I live on my own in a fabulously decorated apartment – at least I think so – and I have a full-time job, an-almost-completed graduate degree and a bunch of stamps on my passport.

And yet…

The other day, I came home and wanted to roast butternut squash to make this amazing pasta recipe. I mean, mine never looks like that. It tastes amazing but looks like a five year old made it. Actually, I’m pretty sure my nephew can cook it better than me.

But that’s not the point. I knew I had a baking sheet. I had used it the week before to try and make scones. That I burnt. #wifematerial right here guys. Line up on the left.


Mine didn’t even look square!

But then the worst thing happened. I couldn’t find my baking sheet. I looked everywhere. I rummaged through all the drawers, the cabinets, the fridge, the freezer, the dishwasher, the oven, the bathroom, the washing machine (don’t ask) and finally sat down on the floor of my kitchen and did the only responsible-adult-like thing I could do. I called my mom. I called and cried and told her my baking sheet was missing, it had been stolen or gone through a vortex and I was going to have to move because of all the crime in my neighborhood. I think I also accused her of stealing it.

I wish I could say I was kidding. But I was actually in tears. I texted all my friends. Some offered helpful comments, others did not. Here are some actual texts:

“Girl you never had one. Simple as that.”

“Clearly someone broke into your place looked around saw baking sheet and took nothing else. Only logical explanation.”

“He’s gone to a better place. Under the bed somewhere.”

“Oh no! That’s terrible!”

Thanks Sam. You’re the only one I can trust.


Sam wouldn’t do this to me. The rest would.

I know. You are all dying to know what happened. Did I lace up my boots, and put on my Annie Walker hat and try to find whoever stole my baking sheet?

No. Because she was the worst spy ever and because my baking sheet wasn’t stolen.


Constantly almost getting herself killed.

Look for a vortex? Move? Cry some more?

Well, I did that. But then, I carried on. A few days later, after a football game (GO REDBLACKS!) I came home and had an idea. What if it had fallen behind the drawer underneath my oven?



I mean, this isn’t exactly it. But you know what I mean

I felt a little ridiculous, and I think my friends thought I was crazy. They told me they were worried about me on my own. That yes, maybe I can travel around the world by myself and be perfectly fine, but two months of household duties sent me over the edge. But here’s something else that I found even better. They said they were surprised at my meltdown over a baking sheet, a simple, trivial thing, but they hadn’t seen a meltdown about other aspects of my life that were really not going well. As I have alluded, I have been having major work issues, but never had a full on meltdown.* But a baking sheet. That. Tipped me over the edge.

It was a traumatic experience. All this because I wanted to make pasta. But I can be sure of one thing.


*Except my mom. Sorry. I have meltdowns all the time with her. Everyday. In fact, just this weekend, she told me that she wasn’t as worried about when I called her crying. BECAUSE I DO IT ALL THE TIME. She brought up the baking sheet incident. Thanks Mom.

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