I get that feeling sometimes that I want to stir shit up. I used to be so good at it, when I was little but the consequences were less dire. I’d get sent to bed early or in my later teenage years got grounded. Dad took back the car keys.

Stirring up trouble now is more like this: have an extramarital affair, try an opoid, stick my finger down my throat on those Friday night Pepperidge Farm binges. I need a smaller stirrer.

So lately I’ve just gotten into the habit of reading a New York Times articles, finding out the author’s contact information and writing them, to thank them for their thoughtful piece. I could rant at them, troll them. But that isn’t the stirring does anyone any good.

Maybe I should bake up a storm. There’s more process, more ingredients to focus on. And there is literally a stirring there.