I guess I just... feel like a sourdough starter that never quite bubbles up, you know? My older sister, she’s like a whole damn bakery. Her blog, “Sweetest Sister Bakes,” or some saccharine shit like that – it just exploded. Every single day, every day, I hear about another sponsorship, another magazine feature, another TV spot. And I’m over here, elbow-deep in grease, trying to plate a decent hollandaise without breaking the bank. My apron always smells faintly of stale oil and desperation, while hers probably smells like vanilla and pure joy. I remember when I first started culinary school. My folks, bless 'em, they scraped together every penny. Said it was an investment in my future. I pictured myself in some Michelin-starred kitchen, the hum of the fridge, the sharp scent of thyme, the frantic dance of service. I saw myself, sleeves rolled up, a quiet intensity in my eyes. And for a while, that’s what it was. Long hours, burned fingers, the constant thrum of adrenaline. It was hard, real hard, but it felt... earned. Like building a house brick by brick, you know? Then she started her blog. “Oh, just a hobby, kiddo,” she said. “Something to pass the time.” Next thing I know, she’s making more from her sponsored posts about artisanal sprinkles than I make in a month busting my ass at the bistro. She’s selling aprons with whimsical quotes, for crissakes. I’m still figuring out how to pay rent AND replace my chef knives, because the cheap ones just don’t hold an edge anymore. It’s like she just flicked her wrist and *poof*, success. While I’m over here sweating it out, trying to make sure the damn scallops aren't rubber. Sometimes, she’ll call me, all bubbly. “Oh, I just got offered a book deal! Can you believe it?” And I’m supposed to be happy for her. And I *am*, I really am. But it’s this hollow sort of happy. Like when you’ve eaten too much cheap candy and your teeth hurt, but you can’t stop. I just nod along, mumble something about how great that is, and then hang up and stare at the ceiling for a bit. She's got this golden touch, everything she puts her hand to turns to internet gold. Me? I just turn out decent plates for people who mostly just want to eat and leave. My hands, they’re covered in little scars now, from burns and cuts. Hers are probably soft and moisturized from all that hand modeling for cookie dough. Sometimes I wonder if I picked the wrong path. If I should’ve just stuck to baking, like she did. But the idea of just... making cookies for a living, after all this? Feels like retreating. Like admitting defeat. Every single day, every day, I wonder if it’s worth it, this grind. This life where the smells of garlic and onions cling to my clothes, and her life smells like success and freshly baked bread. Qué va.