Lately I’ve been watching a lot of food network. Every night when I come home and hit that remote, I’m on that channel.

I’ll work my way through episodes of Chopped. Cutthroat Kitchen. Beat Bobby Flay. It’s a way to inspire my own amateur chef work—and feed my food binge, that’s for sure. 

But if I’m truthful, I’d have to admit it’s the only place I feel safe.

Where I don’t have to deal with political agendas and networks spewing fear or hate. Where I don’t have to try to comprehend another senseless killing or act of terrorism or some other controversy. Where I don’t have to be tempted to despair.

I get the feeling I'm not alone.

When I’m speaking with my friends and coworkers, we’re a mix of things. We're two shots of sadness, poured into a glass and stirred with indignation. Numbness. Somewhere in these conversations I might recall a faint whisper of hope. But when everyone's heavy on that drink, it gets harder to hear...