40somethingmag - Kat Marie - | It-s A Great Fucki...

I sat on the floor. The vintage oven hummed menacingly. My linen apron was stained with tomato paste. I had invited 18 people. The entertainment wasn’t going to be focaccia. It was going to be my funeral.

At 8 PM, Mark walked in, took one look at the smoke alarm duct-taped to a broom handle (my innovation), and said the five words that signal the death of all midlife projects: “The credit card was declined.” 40SomethingMag - Kat Marie - It-s a great fucki...

I felt seen. I felt capable. I felt like maybe the reason my life felt a little stale wasn't my marriage or my job, but the fact that I didn't own a 1970s Alfa Romeo oven. I sat on the floor

The reel was perfect. A woman my age, wearing a linen apron (who wears an apron to cook pasta?), was pulling a golden, blistered focaccia out of a retro Italian oven. The caption read: “Sourdough is for your 30s. Focaccia is for when you know exactly how much olive oil you deserve.” I had invited 18 people

The party went until 1 AM. We sang “Something to Talk About” so loud the downstairs neighbor banged on the ceiling—but rhythmically, like he was joining in.

Getting it up to my third-floor walk-up took two hours, a case of beer for the neighbor’s nephew, and the permanent loss of feeling in my left thumb.