"We eat fruit with joy and with abandon, but very occasionally, and for special moments, I prepare fruit-based desserts: pies and stewed fruit compotes, ice creams and sorbets." Jennifer McGruther, Nourished Kitchen If you know Tim, you know how much…
I read somewhere this weekend that stepping into grief is a lot like stepping into a dark room. The door shuts behind you and you panic because you can’t see, your arms go flailing all about, you're lost and alone…
"Choose love not in the shallows but in the deeps." Christina Rossetti It's Valentine's week and people are talking about love, and I already brought you two sets of hearts, so I better talk about the thoughts behind them if…
A few Wednesdays ago, sitting at our weekly dinner with Tim and his brother, Nate, I quizzed them about their favorite Christmas memories. Tim and Nate are two of three children, their older sister still in Ohio with her husband and three kids, and, as two boys only 13 months apart, they shared a room until the day she left home, when they were ages 16 and 17. They stayed housemates, first in Ohio, then in Tennessee, until the day Tim and I got married and he moved out to live with me. So I like asking them together about their childhood because, in the way that your best friend remembers things about that summer road trip that you forget, the two of them round out each other’s stories. “What were some of your favorite Christmas foods?” I was asking the two men that people still call by each other’s name. Tim said pasta. Nate tried to think. But before long they were telling me about the piles of cookies their mom made every year, from cathedral cookies (marshmallows peek out between layers of cookies, creating what looks like stained glass) to kolachkys (a favorite in my childhood, too) to what Tim referred to as “color cookies,” something I’d never heard of before.
“You remember them, Nate, the ones that had food coloring in them? Red and blue and gold and green?”
When Tim and I came home from Maine, it was with three or four local publications in tow. Between the food festival, our hotel, and a few Portland kiosks, we’d managed to wind up carting around copies of The Portland Press Herald, Down East Magazine, Green & Healthy Maine, and, amongst some other pamphlets, information packets, and a city map, the source of today’s recipe: Northeast Flavor Magazine. This was partly because people kept giving us the content and partly because I can’t turn a glossy magazine or fresh newspaper down. I’m a sucker for pretty packaging, I’m not ashamed to say it, which is at least part of what’s drawn me so deep into the blogging world, as well as why walking through Anthropologie is my idea of a good time.
Is it too slight a thing
To have lived long in September,
To have caught the golden light,
To later have these days, “Remember?”;
(Could we hold so much in
Our grasp, yet reckon things askew,
Because the things we hold are
Moving, moving, like things do?)
I bake a pie on Friday,
I bake a pie today.
Is it too slight a thing to get to
(That’s our way).
At night, I miss the golden hour,
In life, I’ll miss these days—
When we were happy, simple, full,
Working from bed,
Baking our pies,
Laughing at night—
I say this now to know,
Everybody wants a piece of the pie, everybody wants a “How high you fly!”
We’re all looking for something, something to say that we count.
We meet and we’re asked, “What’s your something?”
We meet and we’re asked, “Who are you?”
“I’m my family,” “my beauty,” “my job skills,”
“My companion,” “my food blog,” “my work.”
But deep down, there’s somewhere a gnawing,
Deep down, there’s somewhere an ache.
We can mask it and hide it and hope that
Our efforts to cover will work.
“I’ve got it!” “I’ve won it!” “I’ve made it!”
“Look at me!” “Now, at last, I’m complete!”
But deep down, there’s still somewhere a gnawing,
Deep down, unmasked, still that ache.
When we know this, when we see this, when we are this,
Why don’t we respond to the root?
Instead of ever reaching and striving,
Instead of just joining the race,
Why don’t we step back, slow, and realize
What’s driving our envy, snubbing and spite:
We’re, all of us, everywhere, hungry,
Hungry for wholeness, hungry for life.
All our pushing, for small fame and fortune,
For approval and high-fives and praise,
Is, all of it, every time, grasping,
For something much greater than that.
There’s a secret, locked up in there, hidden,
A secret you learn at the top—Solomon, that rich man, once said it:
These things we want won’t fill us up.
“All is vanity,” so says the preacher. “All is empty,” he finally concludes.
We think we want Big Brand to see us. We think we want That Guy to stop.
But that pushing, that fighting, that clawing,
Is such a fast, black waste of time.
They won’t fill you up! They are empty!
What you want is the water that lasts!
So why not open-hand it and drop what
Was never yours, in fact, at all:
Everybody wants a piece of your pie—Let ’em have it.
There’s much more to fill empty palms.