Romanticizing chores and feeling grown up

The real art of life is creating your own adventure, no matter how small.

There are moments when I suddenly realize I’m no longer a child. It’s not when I celebrate a birthday or make an important decision—it’s when I’m scrubbing the kitchen counter after dinner, doing my laundry, or paying attention to the grocery list. It’s not making my own money or partying or drinking or buying whatever I want or having wild sex — or any sex for that matter. Somehow, the smallest and most mundane tasks are the ones that make me feel the most like an adult.

Now, I know that behind every clean space is effort, behind every meal is planning, and behind every well-stocked home is someone who remembered to go grocery shopping. When I do these things myself, I feel like I am stepping into the role of someone who is responsible, someone who takes care of things. And even though I sometimes complain about it, deep down, I know it makes me feel good — a kind of quiet, almost motherly, power.

I love grocery shopping. There is something unbelievably adult in wondering around a market or a shop, sometimes with a list, other times - without, putting things in your basket: bread, milk, butter, eggs, a bottle of wine, a bag of chips. I can buy a bag of chips without asking anyone for permission, how wonderful is that? I was not allowed to eat chips as a kid, only on special occasions. Now I don’t even particularly want chips, but it’s nice to know I possess the ability to buy them. It’s empowering, if that makes any sense.

Cooking is another thing that makes me feel both adult and happy. I love to eat and I love to feed. I usually watch an episode of Big Bang Theory and indulge in a glass of something lovely when I cook. Beat that.

There is also a certain elegance in routine, in the rituals that make up daily life. The way we prepare a morning cup of coffee, the act of making a bed each day, the slow rhythm of cooking a meal from scratch—these are the small gestures that shape our days. They are not grand or dramatic, but they are what make days a life.

And romanticization (is that a word?) of it all is what makes life particularly wonderful. Having a glass of wine while making dinner, listening to a podcast on the way to a store, eating a pastry while carrying bags of clothes to charity shop to give them a second chance, cleaning the kitchen or organising your sock drawer while listening to French cafe music. And coffee, ah, the coffee.

Coffee makes everything better. It’s grounding — stepping outside into a cool air, walking briskly to a coffee shop and ordering something lovely — an iced oat milk latte or a hot basic bitch pumpkin spice. The morning errands are my favorite and I am intentional about my coffee. I am allowed to have two per day. The first one (from a ceramic boobie mug I made) in the early morning while writing morning pages, a sacred practice for me, the second a few hours later while running errands or catching up with a friend. The world just feels quieter in these small, in-between moments, when the day isn’t demanding too much yet.

There’s a particular pleasure in these everyday errands when framed this way. Strolling to the post office feels less like a chore (although last week I almost did have an emotional breakdown trying to return an Amazon package because DHL and PPL decided to become sisters, but for the sake of an argument let’s forget about it) and more like an excuse to be outside, to breathe in the air and notice the way the seasons are changing (hello, spring, I see you!). Picking up a package becomes a tiny moment of anticipation, a reminder of how nice it is to receive something, even if it’s just a practical delivery (guess who had to pick up glue gun sticks and dishwashing capsules this week?). There’s something about holding a warm cup of coffee while carrying out these little tasks that makes them feel more intentional, more like a ritual of movement and presence rather than just another obligation.

The idea of romanticizing chores is not about pretending they aren’t work, but about recognizing the quiet beauty in them. The real art of life is creating your own adventure, no matter how small.

Perhaps it’s easy for me to talk. I live two minutes walk away from the French bakery that makes the most delicious baguette, it’s usually still hot when I bring it home. I often shop at the farmers market with fresh colourful produce. Who wouldn’t feel good picking out the smallest greenest brussels sprouts out of rattan baskets? I hate folding laundry, so Fredrik mostly folds laundry. I hate ironing, so I don’t iron. Fredrik broke our iron about a year ago and we still didn’t buy a new one. We have a cleaning lady come in once a week. I am not trying to sound smug. I am lucky, yes. But I am also a main character in my own life, and I think we should all be.

p.s. Also, I clean the kitchen all day every day. No matter if I cook or if we fast or get takeout. The kitchen is always dirty.

There is no one telling me what to do, which is both exciting and overwhelming. It’s in those moments — when I’m scrubbing the sink late in the evening because I put it off all day — that I understand what being an adult really means. It’s not about big gestures and life-changing decisions; it’s just about making sure the garbage gets taken out. And the recycling gets sorted. Yes, I’m a good girl. Now I feel a little bit smug.

I am reading “Enchantment” by Katherine May now and enjoying it greatly, almost as much as “Wintering” (a book I re-read and re-listen to every winter). The book is full of advice or rather observations on how to “reawaken wonder in an exhausted age.” It’s not about chores but about always walking through life with wonder, and that’s what I’m trying to do.