A Home Cook's Journal of Tastes & Morsels
How to try and mend a heart (part two). I don’t know. There are no answers. It’s going to pump blood and ache or not ache or not ache and then ache again and then not ache for as long as it wants to. For as long as it can. For as long as it’s…
When life breaks your honey cake. [sigh] I couldn’t tell you what happened. I am sure it was user error. Sometimes, intentions are irrelevant. Sometimes, the thing is going to break whether you meant for it, or not. It can be about what you make of it afterward. [whipped cream folded into vanilla-ed sweetened condensed…
It isn’t that everything is simple; it’s just that sometimes things are much simpler than we anticipate. Allow me to point out the obvious and state: I have made a lot of poppyseed things lately. You’re welcome. I picked a date on a calendar. I set up my phone to e-mail and text a reminder:…
I wrote something about my grandmother when I was a kid, about how one day I would be older and I wouldn’t be able to talk to her, maybe. I wrote it in the third person. She read it back then, and she pointed out to me that she knew it was for her. I…
Pre-Post Script: It is most likely that, if you are reading this, the following is not about you. Staying honest, I had never heard of Bill Smith until his name showed up before the words, “atlantic,” “beach,” and -the real eye-catcher- “pie,” under my thumb. Wasting time on social media. It starts with an ampersand,…
Pretend you identify as female and you own a romper with underwires. They poke and prod. They do not bend. Your move. There is a place in the fabric where you can see a little bud. Do you leave it? Do you tug. And when you tug, don’t you feel better. Nothing gets to state…
Don’t you believe in magic. Chubby fingers, a craving met in the cupboard from a cardboard box with singular packages of marshmallow-sandwiching oatmeal cookies. A voice. A statement. Always. Who decides what is / what is not enough. When do we engage restraint. Why don’t we sometimes. Is there a reason we feel entitled to…
