If you asked me my favorite recipe, I’d probably say Manuel’s mom’s salsa. The woman doesn’t measure a thing, just a roast here, a chop there, and somehow it comes out tasting like bottled sunshine with a side of fire alarm. You don’t eat it so much as survive it, but you’ll still be back for more.
Now, the writing prompt probably meant “food recipe,” but honestly, life throws more curve balls than chilies, so let’s be real, what we all need is a recipe for living. Mine looks something like this:
1 stubborn streak (family-sized).
3 heaping spoons of sarcasm (Irish measure, not metric).
A pinch of patience (sometimes forgotten).
A generous pour of black tea (or wine, depending on the day).
Optional garnish: turf smoke and ancestral side-eye.
Mix it all, stir with equal parts chaos and humour, and boom, dinner’s on the table, life is vaguely manageable, and if all else fails… pass the salsa.
So whether it’s Manuel’s mom in the kitchen, or me trying to cook up a bit of sense in the middle of life’s drama, I’ve learned the same thing: the best recipes aren’t written down. They’re lived, laughed over, and occasionally cried into. And if all else fails? Just add more salsa. 🌶️
Mae🧡
UNDER THE WILL... OVER THE DRAMA... 
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