January 13, 2024 A cylindrical jar of Penzey’s Chili 3000, cool glass in the palm of my hand: “The Now Chili,” it reads the numbers of 3000 spaced more than need be, with a 3 and three bowed zeroes a different typeface than the tighter-fisted Chili above it. The black ridged, cool matte plastic of the spice jar a broken sticker seal watermarked with hearts and watercolor lines. “Penzey’s/Love to cook~cook to love,” a sticker that won’t line up again when I screw the lid, not too tight. The architecture of my left hand doesn’t grip after the hand surgery, the fingers I broke no longer lining up into a fist. I wanted to write that this year, I would remember to put the lid on instead I look for the threads, the ones that close the spice jar but that don’t align. 2.1 oz or 59.g on a pale yellow-tan label. “The chili of today!” it promises, “Bright modern flavor, everything chili should be.” I’m here because I made sweet potatoes and tofu into hash, I’m here to slice away the dented and bruised gloss of an apple for topping. I’m here to pare it down. Resolutions made late or at least late in January.