browned butter triple nut pie

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!

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

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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