A few days ago, one of my kids walked in from the garage holding a nearly empty, Costco-sized bag of tortilla chips. He stuffed a few crumbs into his mouth when I realized, “Wait, isn’t that the bag that’s been sitting in the garage all night?”

So yeah, my kid is eating stale chips from the garage. But also, why were the chips in the garage?

It’s 11am on Friday morning, and our mastermind group has already exchanged several Voxer messages. Most days, Sonya, the East Coaster, starts us off with a “Good morning, how is everyone?” message, often peppered with commentary about the car in front of her or how people can’t park. Her day is in full swing, and when I see the notification on my phone that I have a message, I can hardly wait to hear what’s going to be said. Also, I’ve never found someone’s verbal road rage so endearing.

I’m in the Central Time Zone, so sometimes I’m next up, although Ashlee and Katie, the West Coasters, are more disciplined than me about waking up early. They often beat me to replying, but I catch up eventually. I have serious FOMO if I miss a message. For the rest of the day, we leave each other Voxes about everything from book marketing to health updates to marriage and kids to what we ate for breakfast. These messages are among the most meandering, delightful, sometimes hard but always grace-filled, conversations I’ve had in my life.

We’re a few weeks from the end of another year. As I look back over the last 12 months and take stock of what’s happened in the world, it’s easy to grow discouraged. Personally, my year has been exhausting and full, but relative to other years, it’s not one that’s been particularly marked by grief. Yet when I lift my eyes and consider so many others in my community around me and in the world at large, this year has overflowed with suffering. Just glance back at the headlines, and it’s obvious that suffering runs rampant.

The baby slept through the night, something my other three kids never did at this age. Maybe it won’t last; maybe it will. But I’m thankful all the same, thankful to wake up to a sweet boy who hardly cried for food but greeted me with a smile and a coo instead.

There’s a candle lit next to me, the warm light flickering as I write. It smells like vanilla and soft blankets, the latter I realize is not a smell. But it’s cozy, comforting, even restful in a way.

Like many people, I started baking a lot more after the pandemic started. While I have yet to jump on the sourdough bandwagon, I did find myself mixing flour and sugar and butter together on a much more regular basis than I used to. When I’d scroll through my Instagram feed, it was obvious I wasn’t alone in that practice.

Why do we do that? Why do we find ourselves with a big mixing bowl and a spatula and a newfound desire to use our ovens?

Science, so I’ve heard, has a lot to say about what sugar and carbs do to our brains and bodies (like increasing dopamine levels, which brings us pleasure but is also why practicing moderation is necessary). Yet then why do we sometimes find satisfaction in baking, even when we’re not the ones to eat the fruits of our labor? Why does the act of making cookies or bread or whatever else seem to bring some sense of comfort?

I’ve had this recipe sitting in my drafts for months, waiting to get posted. But every time I’ve gone to write and publish, I don’t have the words. It’s not because of the recipe itself. This granola has become one of my go-to, simple, make-ahead breakfasts. It’s because when the world feels like it’s falling apart, why bother posting about granola?

It feels dumb, honestly.

I’ve shared about this tension before, about how it’s strange to do ordinary, mundane things when people are deeply suffering. I want to fix it, to make a difference, to bring about real, lasting change.

Last year around this time, the Coffee + Crumbs team brainstormed how we’d “pivot” our annual Mother’s Day Brunch. We ended up taking the brunch where everything else went: online. We laughed, cried, sat in front of our screens eating breakfast for one and drinking solo mugs of coffee, brunching via Zoom.

It was not what we originally planned, but we are moms. We know how to adapt. We know how to change a diaper in the back of the minivan with only Chick-Fil-A napkins found in the car door to use as wipes. We know how to pull out leftovers from the fridge and pantry, cut them into small bites and proudly proclaim, “It’s snack dinner tonight!” We know how to convince our hurting preschooler that his doctor visit is going to be a fun date with mom (or at least it will end with donuts).

I’ve been feeling almost paralyzed lately, not sure what to do or write, uncertain how to handle all that’s going on in the world. As I’d sit there unable to wade through everything, the dishes piled up, my kids fought, and my very real, ordinary life continued to go on–whether I was ready or not.

This morning, I sat down with a cup of coffee and my journal. Pen in hand, I started to unravel the threads in my heart and mind. I started to put it on the page and pray through it all.

And I started to reset.

There are days–even weeks, months, or years–when we need to set some of our normal life aside to handle whatever new thing life has thrown at us. Then, there are days when we need to put our pen to paper, feet to the floor, hands to work…and get back at it.

“This is the best day ever!”

My kids have taken to shouting that hyperbolic statement nearly any time they do something they enjoy. Eating ice cream, riding bikes, going to a friend’s house—these all apparently deserve the title of “best day ever.”

The pendulum swings just as far in the other direction, of course. There are about a hundred activities that can cause them to declare any given day the worst ever—eating cooked carrots, having to clean their rooms, not being allowed to play with the hose at 8am when it’s 50 degrees outside, wearing shoes that fit. Who knew that last one could so easily result in a three-year-old naming an otherwise normal Thursday “the worst day ever.”

I walked into the restaurant, my pregnant belly arriving minutes before the rest of me. “Multiples group?” I asked the hostess. She led me toward the corner where a few tables were pushed together and about ten moms sat around chatting.

It was my first time meeting most of the women there. I had just joined the group shortly after finding out I had two little ones on the way. A few other twin mamas I knew suggested getting plugged into a moms of multiples group, and, to be honest, I was skeptical. I had a strong community around me, family who lived nearby, and plenty of other mom friends. But I agreed to check it out.

The last couple weeks have been filled with all the normal chaos of life—sickness, things in our home breaking or needing to be cleaned, a two-year-old very vocally voicing his opinions, skipped naps, and pediatrician appointments. It’s not been anything completely out of the ordinary—just tiring. But I find myself frustrated that I can’t seem to get ahead on tasks and annoyed at the inconveniences of life.

Just like my kids, I have to eat a good breakfast in the morning. A granola bar just doesn’t cut it for me. I notice hunger strike just an hour or two later or a crash in my energy level if I don’t eat a protein-rich meal. But too often, starting my day with the cries of my kids means my breakfast gets put on the back-burner.

Enter the frittata. This version is hearty, wholesome, and perfect for breakfast, brunch, or even an easy weeknight dinner.