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Posts Tagged ‘baking’

Keep some room in your heart for the unimaginable.
                  —Mary Oliver
 
 
I could not have imagined
how every year my daughter
and I would bake a chocolate beet cake
for Timothée Chalamet’s birthday—
nor could I have foreseen
how it would thrill me—
this sweet ritual in which we celebrate
the life of an actor who brings
us joy. Joy needs such a meager
door through which to enter and reveal
itself. A door I can’t imagine
with a handle I can’t find
except by loving the world
and the people in it.
I would have thought loving
made the heart more full.
And it does. But it makes
the heart more spacious, too,
a place where anything could happen,
even what is real: a daughter,
a mother, and hours in the kitchen
singing and stirring, the scent
of chocolate, earthy and nutty,
floating in the air like a song.
 

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It takes five times longer to bake
a cake with my nephew, and I love
every minute of helping him clean up
the mess of the egg which is somehow
splattered across the counter, love
how excited he is to scrape the sides
of the bowl, how somehow he turns
buttering the pan into a game.
“That was fun!” he shouts as he leaves
the kitchen, his mop of blonde hair
flopping as he lopes away, and
I feel the great squeeze of ache
that comes from loving someone
so much we almost can’t bear the loving,
and yet it’s the only thing we want.

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It’s elegant, really,
the way protein in eggs
and gluten in flour
create a structure
strong enough that when baked
will stretch without tearing
and set without leaking,
thus trapping the steam
that makes the thin batter rise.
And though it is science
and chemical reaction,
though we could write
an equation to explain it,
still the innocent glee
that rises in us
each time we peek through
the oven window and witness
the golden ballooning.
Perhaps astonishment
is the secret ingredient
when mixed with attention
that creates in us a structure
strong enough to contain
an expanding joy.
How delicious it is,
the chance to celebrate
the familiar, to find
what is marvelous
in the daily, then offer it
like bread to each other.

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Chocolate, of course,
the cake we baked
to celebrate the birthday
of Timothée Chalamet,
not that he will ever
taste it to know
we added pure imagination
with the sugar, the butter,
the flour, the grated beets.
Still, such joy as we baked,
as we sang. Such joy
as we made the sweet batter,
as we buttered and floured
the pans, as we waited
for heat to do its good hot work
transforming sugar and flour
into cake. Every day
the heart breaks and today
there is also the chance to play,
to make joy where before
there was only an egg,
a pinch of salt, a bit of milk,
some flour, two empty pans.

*

yes, friends, you may recall this is our THIRD year baking cakes for Timothée Hal Chalomet. He’s basically one of the family now!

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3.14.22

   Tonight, instead of serving pie,
 I serve the memory of pie—
    serve the memory of pumpkins
 we grew in the garden
     then processed into custard.
         Serve the memory of years
  we made gluten-free crusts.
      Serve the memory of your rhubarb plant
     that will rise more robust this spring,
   memory of thinly sliced apples,
     key limes, lemon merengue,
        and all those tart cherries
         we harvested together.
       I serve the joy we shared
         in celebrating a constant
   necessary to the geometry of the world.
  I serve the thrill in knowing
   there is something
        both transcendental and infinite,
    something death can never touch,
      something ubiquitous that defines
  the world we inhabit.
      And though it is math,
    it is no less love,
   something that helps us
   understand our universe,
        something that hints
   at the grand design
  that amidst great catastrophe
       continues to hold it all together.

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For hours we focus
on forming what is sweet—
shaping soft dough
with our hands, with a press,
with a rolling pin. And the house
smells of vanilla and cinnamon.
And happy hours disappear into laughter
and the hands find joy
in making something good.

I think of all the other hands
in kitchens across the world—
hands working together
to serve others—
I imagine their fingerprints
right here in this dough.
I imagine us feeding each other.

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