Been re-re-re-reading Birds of America (I tend to seek shelter in books I love during confused and fucked-up times), and melted into this:

She had already — carefully, obediently — stepped through all the stages of bereavement: anger, denial, bargaining, Häagen-Dazs, rage. Anger to rage — who said she wasn’t making progress?

Substitute bourbon balls and ginger cookies (thank you, IDs!) and occasional chocolate malted frozen yogurt from Cafe Kiraz and stray leftover Ghirardelli chocolate chips for Häagen-Dazs, and you’re very close. I just hope I can figure out how to turn my rage into something constructive.