Changes

I’ve thought about making this move for about a year. I’ve only occupied the space for 17 months. True, but I entered it hastily, unprepared to know what it is I really wanted; I just wanted an outlet.

flour bowl

Very early on, however, I realized that this blog is much less about eating than it is about making and reflecting, doing and being. It’s about the creation, not so much the consumption. It’s about building and sharing and experimenting and playing and succeeding and failing. It’s my life completely in food. And that means cookbook-reading and flour-throwing and, yes, eating out too I guess.

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Table for One

puff pastry + crème fraîche + persimmons + pistachio

PuffPastryTart
I started the weekend like I do most others. At that early hour, it was bright enough for morning light to gently kiss the cold floors without forcing me to flick a light on, but dim enough to allow me to appreciate the calm. I put the kettle to boil, made myself something simple to eat, and helped myself to my table. This is a serve-yourself restaurant. There’s no waiter service at this joint. A regular, I’m entitled to the same seat every weekend. Window ahead of me, blinds cracked; wall behind. I’m the only one here, so I don’t feel too bad firing up my laptop at a place of eating to check my email, read the news. Headphones go in to block out the silence, and the hazy diners around me become invisible.

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Hello, Love

chocolate-almond pear tart with cinnamon whipped cream

Cinnamon Whipped Cream
It’s over. The experiment is over. Winter is here.

Remember this? You thought I was crazy. You were ready to revoke my dessert-lover’s license. I may be crazy but this year, like every year, I did not have a hard time avoiding chocolate from mid spring-December. (And I’m talking real chocolate; the use of white *cough*sweetened cocoa butter*cough* chocolate was totally acceptable.)

This certainly does not (as I tried and failed to explain in my farewell post) mean that I didn’t eat chocolate or chocolate-laced baked goods made by others. I was not following some sort of regime or cleanse. I eat chocolate everyday, and I definitely indulged in plenty of chocolate desserts and pastries while out and about.

But since I did not use my hands to manipulate it—chop a big block of it with all of my might or stir it ever so carefully as it melts into velvet in the bowl of a double boiler—I was still somewhat disconnected from it. Now I am craving something rich, dark, and maybe a bit gooey like I never have before. But the process was justified. I didn’t long to bake with chocolate. I was distracted for the reasons I outlined: The fruits and the flavors of late Spring, Summer, and Fall are too intriguing and too fleeting to put on the back burner. The yearly experiment is a way to broaden my baking horizons and stray from the obvious, from the universally loved.

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Leftovers

brown sugar cheesecake ice cream

with gingersnap “crust”

Gingersnap Ice Cream
Tuesday, New Year’s Day, I plucked the last beaded decoration off my Christmas tree, wishing I could keep it there just one more week, maybe two. Lights were unstrung, the tree went away, and the living room was restored to its normal twinkle-less state. Although I hadn’t slowed down and realized it was actually the holiday season until about a week before Christmas day, I found myself wishing the light would never leave. I’m not a Christmas fanatic. You know the type. That’s not me. But with the tree take-down, I felt myself wishing I were. I felt like I did as a kid going back to school after the December break. Christmas fanatic or not, the holiday is, for me, that little something to look forward to. Because after that, it is winter. Not winter-solstice-technical winter, but the winter you can feel, from skin to bone.

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Healing

browned butter triple nut pie

ChristmasPie
I knew what the subject of today’s post was going to be. The meaning of Christmas to me. A religiously confused, complicated young woman. About how I interpret its magic and its universal message. There would be Christmas pie.

But this morning (as I write this it is Saturday, December 15th) it’s just not possible, for I am dead today. Drained from a tragedy that affected no one I know. In a town that I had never heard of. I try not to comment on current events on this site. I have other outlets for that. And although deeply afflicted today, the girl who talks too much has nothing to say. There are too many without that holiday this year. Without that spirit. I need time to heal.

Saturday is baking day. I planned to bake today. Gifts, actually. I can’t do it. You would think taking time, just me and my dough, would be cathartic. It has been through loss and sadness in the past. But this feels different.

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What, No Cookies? (or, the worst photos I’ve ever posted…)

holiday endive and fennel salad…and more!

salad
It’s hard to love something but only be able to take part in it once a week, It’s distracting, longing for something that’s not within reach. It’s unfortunate that a particular passion can’t be pursued everyday.

When people ask what my weekend plans are, I typically have little to say. Working, sleeping, and running errands don’t qualify as “special plans.” They’re constants. Every Saturday, I try to squeeze in a couple of hours for myself. I’ll usually bake something in the morning and cook up a nice meal at night. And really, as someone who loves to cook, experiment, and just breathe in the kitchen, I’m only going through the motions one day a week. The kitchen will always be the center of my life, but on every other day, there’s little fun, little creativity in the kitchen—every act in the kitchen is necessary. It’s preparing. It’s putting together office lunches. It’s roasting vegetables for train dinners. It’s stuffing things in bags for snacks. Sunday is the batch-cooking day. I cook what works, what keeps, what will sustain me on long work days.

This isn’t a problem unique to me. You won’t hear me complaining. The world has changed, our lives spin fast, we don’t rest, we don’t stop.

So that leaves me with that one day. That one day to be in my own little world. It’s the reason why I rarely eat out anymore or why I still haven’t found a proper pair of winter boots. If I do those things one day, I’ll miss out. There will be no kitchen that week. I’ll have to wait an entire week. An eternity.

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A Delicious Lie

chewy-gooey ginger-molasses cookies

Cookie Sheet

I am, apparently, a liar. Based on my last post, I lied on two accounts. Unintentionally, of course. I try to be very honest in this space. This medium forces me to be brutally honest with myself, actually.

Last Saturday I thought I had sent this tweet early in the morning: “It’s Dec 1st. It’s snowing. Today’s plans: bake cookies, drink hot chocolate, decorate tree. When did my life get so adorable? It’s creepy.” I really had woken up to a beautiful day. December 1st. It’s the day on which I traditionally acknowledge that Fall is over. The day on which pumpkins can be trashed. On which bands can play and lights can flicker.

Cookie Dough
It was snowing, not treacherously so, but just enough to make my tiny home feel like the inside of a snow globe. I had no desire to run errands or to catch up after a busy week. I wanted to stay safely in that snow globe, sip my tea at breakfast, work mindlessly in the kitchen, and attempt to make a winter — following a fall that hadn’t been the happiest — brighter. To start on a positive note. To stay warm.

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The Chewy and the Crunchy

cinnamon-sugar cookies & speculoos

Speculoos
I’m cynical but optimistic.
Silly yet overly analytical.
I’m genuine and sincere yet bitingly sarcastic.
A pushover but one whose tough as nails.
I’ll laugh hysterically over a quirky joke but loathe another’s sense of humor.
I love giving gifts but feel uncomfortable receiving them myself.
I long to travel yet never make the time to do so.
I’ll wake up at 5:30 am on the weekend but wear half-pajamas all day and play in the kitchen, never moving more than 10 paces.
I’ll cry over the ending of a movie but never shed a tear at a funeral.
I’m loving but difficult to love.
I seek clarity but sometimes feel like I’m living in the dark.

I’m complicated. In cookie speak, I can be chewy and crunchy. Not to be confused with soft (say, like, lebkuchen) and hard (say, like, biscotti).

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An Unexpected Treat

cornmeal-ginger swedish apple pie


As I chatted with coworkers about our Thanksgiving plans, I realized that Thanksgiving might be my favorite holiday. My boss said it best: It’s a time to come together, to share, to break bread, to enjoy–without the gifts, the frills, the sparkles. It’s a day to push innovation aside just a little and cook what comforts, what’s familiar, what’s easy.

I hosted Thanksgiving dinner this year for the first time. Christmas is usually mine. I’ll bring dessert, some sides, some overly pushy (but always sage) advice to Thanksgiving dinner. But this time it was mine. All mine. And considering Thanksgiving was wiped off the calendar for me due to illness last year, I was excited.

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Sharing with Strangers

buttermilk dinner rolls


I’m writing this while carrying my own weight on the downward slant of a broken commuter rail train seat. It’s late—a flat tire derailed my normal morning journey, and I’m headed to Boston on an unfamiliar train, with folks who are not just nameless, but who are also strangers with faces I’ve never seen. This train seems to be pushing faster, must faster than the rush hour train. So fast that I can’t balance myself in my seat, and my fingers cannot correctly tap out words. I’ll have to fix the typos later. I’ll be very late to work on this day, Friday, November 16th. My mind is wandering, thinking about the holidays, about how, like this train, they’ve rolled in far too quickly.

But as usual, as I start writing about something on the train, I’m changing course. Distracted by the measures I go to in order to not be seen—well, read, actually. These petty topics and food-related thoughts that move me seem fine when thrown at the wall, or the web, but not when seen by those in close proximity. I sit next to far too many black-suited businessmen on my travels. Even if writing these posts is one of the best parts of my week, I fear that they’ll glance over at my screen, read my text, judge me, my importance. How freaking old am I? I sound like a child. But that lingering thought of, “Just because this is important to me, is it important, really?” always comes up when I’m in public, typing.

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