It’s been the shy side of two weeks since I found myself adrift in this mid-century modern fruit basket shaped like the architectural renderings of Noah’s Ark. The oranges mock me with their zest, the lemons with their unwavering yellow. But as my fibrous plumbing leaks the fluid from my body—my stringy bits are edible by the way, right up until the end—I have but one simple request: just let me get baked. We can do it together. I know you want to.