There’s a specific cruelty to early January that nobody warns you about. Not the cold. Not the return to routine. Not the existential dread of a fresh calendar.
No — I’m talking about the abrupt, jarring transition back to regular meals.
Remember December? That gloriously unstructured, socially acceptable grazing season where “lunch” could be anything from a cheese cube to a cookie someone handed you while you were minding your own business. When charcuterie boards multiplied like rabbits and every social setting involved at least three varieties of carbs.
It was beautiful. It was festive. It was efficient. Truly our most evolved state as a society.
Then January arrives, clipboard in hand, ready to audit your life choices.
Suddenly we’re expected to chop vegetables again. To plan dinners. To cook things that don’t arrive pre-arranged on themed platters. Meanwhile, the refrigerator has the nerve to look back at me with shelves full of “responsible” ingredients I apparently bought during some burst of optimism I don’t recall having.
My kids are still adjusting. They’re not feral — just confused in a polite, civilized way. They look at a plate of normal food like, “Oh, right… this. We used to do this.” They’ll adapt. Eventually.
The real whiplash is the mental transition. December is powered by spontaneity and baked goods. January demands structure, order, and the emotional stamina to answer the nightly question, “What’s for dinner?” with something other than “I don’t know — what year is it?”
I’m perfectly capable of cooking. I just resent the sudden expectation that I must. The holiday rulebook is barely cold, and already we’re pretending we didn’t spend a month surviving on festive small plates like fully functioning adults living their best lives.
Truthfully, part of me thrives on the reset — clean counters, fresh routines, the noble return of real meals.
But the other part is mourning the end of that brief, sparkling season where food was fun and whimsical and required zero planning on my part.
And if I daydream about Christmas cookies while assembling a respectable January dinner… well, I consider that reasonable.
We all have our coping mechanisms.