I'm not exactly sure why, but cooking clears my head—like some kind of culinary exorcism. Even as my Chicago Cutlery hacks through onions with a savage rhythm, my mind drifts into deep, dangerous waters. It’s meditation, but with knives.
This morning, a forgotten pot of pinto beans soaking overnight greeted me like an old friend who crashed on my couch without notice. Soon enough, my blade was echoing off drywall, and right there, amid the chop-chop chaos, a brutal question sucker-punched me: why had booze always had such a goddamned grip on me?
Then came the cosmic backhand—sharp and unforgiving. In a past life, I must have been the merciless bastard who sneered at addicts, dripping contempt and judgment. A grim, universal truth sliced deep into my brain: reincarnation comes with strings. We get to come back, sure, but karma makes damn certain we return bearing the weight of our harshest judgments.
Great read!