ONE YEAR LATER

Our kitchens were stacked.

          Mine was on the second floor with more dishes than I could ever handle. I would clop clop clop around in my cooking clogs, practicing the art of keeping young children alive.

          Hers was on the first floor with enough jars and tupperware and folded paper bags and cocoa squirreled away for any kind of apocalypse that might happen to come along. When it came to cooking, she knew everything about everything. She had just stopped doing it, her culinary world reduced to tapioca pudding, toast, and tea.

          My grandmother heard my children grow up. Every tumble, every tantrum. She heard me grow up. Ten years of marriage. Four years of trying to conceive a second baby. She heard every thrown plate, every slammed door, every episode of “Battlestar Galactica.”

          I worried she was hearing too much life through her ceiling. So I apologized for it all. She wouldn’t hear of it. She wanted the noise. She wanted us up there.

          I had moved into the upstairs apartment when I was 33, when I had a 9-month old baby girl, when I had heaps of unspoken post-partum sadness. My grandmother would listen to me talk and talk and talk. I would tell my stories about parenting and marriage just to see if she would smile or laugh. She was blind in one eye, so sometimes I would think she wasn’t listening. But months later she would repeat my world back to me. Moment by moment, the details locked into her brain like the words she gobbled up from her never-ending pile of New Yorkers, New York Review of Books, mystery novels.

          We respected each other’s privacy. No knocking. Just carefully penciled in dates. She liked having her dinner alone, or so she said. I think she didn’t want me to feel put out. So it was just tea or drinks. Her lipstick on. My hair brushed. All of the kids’ detritus shoved away in closets. At the carefully chosen time, she would walk out her front door and cross the lawn—pausing for a few deep breaths with her hand on the jacaranda tree—and then around to the other side of the house to my front door.

          I would call her when things went awry.

          I could hear the phone ringing downstairs and then I could feel her warmth slowly shifting out of bed and towards the phone.

          The soup is too thin, grandma. What do I do? (Add a cooked and mashed potato.) The braised meat isn’t softening up. (More time? Some acid?)

          I would call her to be my recipe guinea pig.

          Grandma, can I bring you a little something I’ve been working on?

          As long as it’s not caramel.

          It’s not caramel. I promise.

          Just leave it outside. Thank you.

          I would cover it in plastic wrap, walk it down the stairs, and leave it on the bench outside her front door.

          I would call her just to make sure she was still alive.

          She would get the first cookie, the warmest piece of pie, a corner of the croquembouche debacle, a smear of the ridiculous cheeseball, the first and last attempt at homemade bread, a slice of every single gingerbread I ever made.

          All I wanted to do was feed her. And in return I would get the blunt-ass truth via a phone call. Too sweet. A bit ugly. Absolutely delicious. Fine, fine, fine. Maybe don’t cook it quite so long next time?

          After she died, I went through her kitchen and found dozens of ramekins, plates, silverware from my own kitchen. I can see her, eating the treats in bed. She glides through her apartment, scraping the remains, rinsing the dishes. Then she tucks them away as her own.

My recipe for Gingerbread with Cream Cheese Frosting can be found in my Food52 column.

GIVEAWAY GIVEAWAY GIVEAWAY YES IT'S TRUE

—THIS GIVEAWAY IS NOW CLOSED. THANKS SO MUCH FOR ALL OF YOUR BEAUTIFUL WORDS.—

Quick addition to what's written below: The wonderful Ten Speed Press has generously agreed to donate 3 more cookbooks to my giveaway. Read through and comment below for a chance to win 1 of 2 boxes of books. Happy holidays! 

Books. They are taking over our apartment. Towering piles in every direction. Cookbooks stacked on kitchen chairs. Filmmaking everything. How to feed a baby, raise a daughter, avoid mold, live happily ever after. Plumbing guides next to French anchovy books. Harry Potter this. Coming-of-age memoir that. "Buddhism for Dummies." Heaps of poetry. But we don't know how to get rid of them. We don't want to get rid of them. Once a month, an IKEA shelf drops down from the weight of a double- and sometimes triple-deep row of books. Or while I'm looking for a Chuck Palahniuk novel, "Ulysses Annotated" will crash down on my toes. Escoffier hides behind "Spago's Desserts" and the Cook's Illustrated's "Baking Book" (perched on my favorite stool) has been holding up one side of our kitchen table for longer than I would care to admit. But I love all of the books. I talk to them like I talk to my herbs.

Here's the good news for you and for me: I am giving away three of my books in my first blog giveaway. And considering our pathological love for books around here, it was very moving to be able to tell my daughter that I am in three books this fall and that I would love for her to photograph me holding them. So she did.

Here are some details on the books (and links to buy), but see below for GIVEAWAY DETAILS.

See the book on top? That's BEST FOOD WRITING 2015 (published by Da Capo Press / edited by Holly Hughes). It includes my apple tart story and recipe from my Food52 column. And some of my favorite writers are in this compilation including Emily Thelin, John Birdsall, Elissa Altman, Jeff Gordinier, Tom Junod, Kim Foster, Sarah Henry, John T. Edge, Pete Wells, Ryan Sutton, and some guy I've never heard of named Anthony Bourdain.

The book in the middle of the pile is called HERE SHE COMES NOW: Women in Music Who Have Changed Our Lives (published by Rare Bird Books / edited by Jeff Gordinier and Marc Weingarten). My essay from this book—on Madonna, Miley Cyrus, and my perimenopausal hormones—was re-published over on Salon.com. Check it out and I do hope it inspires you to buy the book and read the other 21 stories. It is a compelling and diverse collection including some badassery from Susan Choi on Stevie Nicks, Kate Christensen on Tina Turner, Charlotte Druckman on Mary J. Blige, Lisa Catherine Harper on Kate Bush, Jennifer Nix on June Carter Cash, Rosie Schaap on Sandy Denny, Ada Limón on Aretha Franklin, Bart Blasengame on Liz Phair, and Ian Daly on PJ Harvey. 

The larger book at the bottom of the pile is FOOD52 BAKING: 60 Sensational Treats You Can Pull Off in a Snap (published by Ten Speed Press). My recipe for Brown Butter Cupcake Brownies is included (my accompanying essay is not in the book but it can be still be found on Food52). This cookbook is elegantly photographed by James Ransom and lovingly styled by some of my favorite people over at Food52. Here are some of the fabulous treats my cupcake recipe is hanging out with: Italian Cornmeal Cookies from Emiko Davies, Savory Galette with Greens and Gruyère from Marian Bull, Black Sesame Cupcakes with Matcha Buttercream from Molly Yeh, Olive Oil Ricotta Cake from Kenzi Wilbur, Cherry Almond Crumb Cake from Yossy Arefi, Skillet Spice Cake with Gooey Caramel Bottom (!!!) from Merrill Stubbs. It's a practical collection. It's a longterm collection. It's a beautiful collection. I'm thrilled to be included.

GIVEAWAY DETAILS:

I've never done a giveaway. Maybe you've never entered one? So let's just make the rules up. Here's how to enter (but please let me know if you have questions):

1. Add a comment below. Maybe post a link to your favorite song. Or tell me a story about cooking or parenting. Or share a kitchen hack. List your favorite books ever. Or tell me what you're going to have for dinner tonight. Ask a question about salad dressing. Describe your marriage. What moves you? What pisses you off? What keeps you going? Give me a list of what parenting has taught you. Tell me the books that are stacked next to your bed. Break down your technique for roasting a chicken. Write a story. Sum up this week in five words. Anything. Just don't post anonymously or I will never find you again.

2. On December 20th, Dash will select a random winner by drawing a name out of my new favorite black hat.

3. On January 1st, 2016, I will send the winner some Meyer lemons, a batch of granola, and a copy of each book I talked about above. Plus, I will throw in a surprise book. A cookbook. That's all I'll say for now.

4. Or just skip the whole giveaway hooha and order them from your local bookstore or Amazon. 

If for some reason you have trouble with the commenting function (it happens! no worries!) or if you wish to post anonymously, feel free to send me an email at dashandbella@gmail.com and I will enter you into the drawing.

I am really excited to share these books. Thank you so much for being a part of this community. You all keep me writing and cooking and breathing. And  I am so grateful.

xoxo

Phyllis

(photos by isabel ross)

IT WAS A BUSY SUMMER

and I am so grateful to finally have a quiet September house. At the same time, I am stunned by the relentlessness of the meal prep. I have stopped counting up all of the school lunches I have made. And now that my kids have some sort of activity almost every day after school, I am trying to expand my one-pot-meal repertoire. Recipes coming.

Back in July, I recorded a Burnt Toast podcast with Amanda Hesser and Merrill Stubbs, co-founders of Food52. It is 23 minutes of us talking about children and food and cooking along with managing editor Kenzi Wilbur. Our kids even joined in for part of it. I was on top of my desk in Berkeley (no, really, sitting in straddle to reach the mic) and the rest of the crew was in a studio in New York City. Dash joined me on the desk towards the end (he is the one who very clearly states his hatred for anchovies). There was this moment (minute 18:27, in fact) when the kids started talking to each other and it felt like we were all sitting around the dinner table. I swear my heart just exploded.

If you feel like it, let me know in the comments below if you have any stories or tips or triumphs or frustrations relating to kids and cooking. I love the beautiful and the ugly and everything in between. So bring it on.

Click either image below to link to the podcast.

More soon about my book and various other projects. Lots going on. Can't wait to share.

xoxo

Phyllis

t

SOLANACEAE

Loving our sons is easy.

I get there ten minutes early to secure seats. It has to work.

They spend the day stumbling on sidewalk cracks and bubbling with goofy unconditional love.

There is always a reason we can’t get together.

We can almost see them growing in their sleep.

A dying father, sick kids, a deadline.

But our daughters just want to quietly close their bedroom doors, moving away from any sense of family, escaping into devices and daydreams and vlogs.

A forgotten email thread, fatigue, an inability to be social. 

So we hold them too tight.

And then finally we are all sitting on barstools with drinks in our hands.

We talk about how if one of our kids died, we would curl up in a fetal position and go to bed forever.

Our stories are interchangeable.

How quickly we get all situation critical about marriage: Once we get to the word divorce, it’s so easy to pick it up again and throw it like a ninja star.

How if someone had given us spreadsheets when we were young, outlining the ups and downs of marriage, we might never have dreamed of finding the one.

We give strong hugs and go home.

How as things get harder with parenting and marriage, the more determined we are to make something meaningful.

I am home. I am hungry. For the first time in as long as I can remember, food hasn’t been on my mind for an entire evening.

Like the novel in the drawer, the book proposal, the new job opportunity.

I pull one square of tart out of the freezer and throw it in the oven until the tomato is bubbling away. 

The Kickstarter we are scared to get out there, the new family business.

I cut into the collapsed and shrivelled tomato. Its insides spill out all the things I love: anchovies, herbs, capers, lemon zest, garlic, Parmesan cheese. I scoop everything up with crispy prosciutto.

The final cut of the documentary film.

I crawl into bed and wrap a hand around my husband’s sleeping arm. I hear a happy sigh.

The book we have to finish.

I say to the dark room: There is no plan. Just a slow rhythmic squeezing of his shoulder and a gentle tracing of his left calf with my right toe.

---------
If you want to learn more about my Tomato Tart with Goat Cheese, Quark, Prosciutto, and Gremolata, you can find the recipe on Food52.

If this tart seems crazy high maintenance, just stuff the tomatoes with gremolata, wrap them in some kind of bacon fat, bake them on high heat in a cast iron pan, and throw on some mozzarella at the last minute. Scoop mouthfuls out of the pan with garlicky grilled bread.

Or improvise. I write about a few places to start in my Cooking What I Want column on Food52. Let me know what you're making!

REMOVED

Full beard and strapping body aside, the bartender is young enough to be my son.

Hendrick's martini, please. Straight up with olives.

Hey. I like your style.

My entire body smiles back.

Thank you.

I want to ask what he sees. Does he know I'm a mom? 

Instead, I gather all of the candles from one end of the bar, vow to get my eyes checked soon, and tuck my head into a book.

The air is warm, the martini is cold, the music is loud. The room smells like chicken and potatoes and the late eighties: like my first years in New York City, all full of bigness and potential and the scariness of it all. 

I need food.

My eyes glide down the menu and get stuck on two of my favorite words: romaine and anchovies. 

I wave to my bartender son.

This salad looks exciting.

That salad is exciting.

Two seats down is a body dripping with tattoos, motorcycle leather, fatigue. He is old enough to be my husband.

He picks up his burger. I pick up my grilled romaine. He dips his fries in ketchup. I scoop up the creamy, smoky, fishy salad dressing with my bread. I moan yum. He sighs. He doesn't look to the right. I don't look to the left. We eat together. I feel safe.

I pay, pick up my martini, and head for the hotel elevator. I don't look back.

I climb up on the coffee table with my martini and watch the flashing lights of Manhattan through the floor-to-ceiling Brooklyn windows. I start to relive the thirteen years of pining and dreaming and never ever sleeping that I crammed into that little island. What did I do with all of that kid-free time? I didn’t even like anchovies back then.

I step down.

I lower the shades, wash the martini glass, and tuck myself into the soft and clean king-sized bed. No morning light, no buzzing phones, no barfing kids, no nothing will wake me up until I am ready.

You can find the recipe for Grilled Romaine Salad with Corn and Creamy Anchovy Garlic Vinaigrette in my column over at Food52.

ICYMI: BROWN BUTTER BANANA BREAD WITH PEANUT STREUSEL

(I'm working on some new recipes and stories for May. Meanwhile, here is last month's post from Cooking What I Want, my Food52 column. I'm about a month behind with everything so spring break and the Easter Bunny make an appearance! I tested this recipe so intensely that I have many half-eaten loaves hiding in my freezer. A few days ago, I took one out at midnight, left it on the counter, and the next morning had myself a kick ass breakfast of toasted gooey banana bread with butter AND cream cheese. You need both. Trust me.)

YOU ONLY HAVE TWO HOURS until your son rushes back into the house from school and begins eleven days of spring break.

Two hours to organize eleven years' worth of your kids’ art.

Two hours to try on and reject all of your bathing suits.

Two hours to figure out the book you want to write.

Instead, you move the food processor to the right side of the kitchen and plug it in.

Two hours to master the mandoline.

Two hours to track down the electrician to figure out why none of the outlets work on the left side of your kitchen.

You brown the butter until it smells just right.

Two hours to make skin cancer screening, mammogram, oil change appointments.

Two hours to clean up the mess the Easter bunny made when she dumped the contents of the toy bin outside to make room for the baskets, thinking it would never ever rain again in California.

You gather roasted peanuts and two very sad bananas.

Two hours to dissect the ins and outs of the Iran Nuclear Deal and Indiana’s Religious Freedom Restoration Act.

You think about the drought and the melting polar ice caps and how much waste there is in your kitchen: half-eaten apples, salami and cheese sandwiches smushed in bottoms of lunch boxes, a back porch strewn with Ziploc bags and vinegar and baking soda from a weekend of baggie bomb wars.

Two hours to sharpen your knives.

You pour your son's leftover breakfast into the food processor: one bowl of plain yogurt, half a glass of orange juice.

Two hours to find the popover recipe you developed over the course of three months and then lost somewhere in the kids’ paper trail.

You smack an egg on the counter. Again. And again. It’s hard-boiled. The Easter bunny needs to organize her fridge.

Two hours to meditate.

You sift the dries and pulse the wets. As you mix them together, you look for pockets of flour, remembering how your mom taught you to fold: cut down the middle, flip the spatula, quarter turn the bowl. 

Two hours to clean up the kitchen mess before you need to start cooking the next meal.

You press in the peanut streusel.

Two hours to crawl into bed and give up.

Your son dashes in. Ready for 264 hours of spring break. Ready for a piece of banana bread with butter. Ready for you. 

Two hours to remember who you are, why you're here.
Recipe for Brown Butter Banana Bread With Peanut Streusel can be found in my Food52 column.

SCHOOL

My son hands me a pile of cheesecake recipes.

Where did you get these? 

From the internet thingy, mom.

How did you print them?

I hit the print button. 

A year ago he couldn’t even turn on the device.

Mom, I think we should combine the recipes. Just mix them all up into one. It will be easy.

I’m listening.

What about lemonade cheesecake with Oreo crust? Frozen into squares? Topped with Cool Whip?

I try to remain at least externally open-minded. I propose a scooter ride.

You’ve never scooted in your life, mom.

I just need some time to clear my head, to talk myself back into recipe testing with a seven-year-old, to remember what it feels like to be a beginner.

We go around the block three times, inhaling the early jasmine, taking the corners dangerously. I fall twice. My right hip flexor cramps. My inner thighs start shaking.

We’re ready to make a cheesecake.

Take one has brown butter graham cracker crust. Equal parts cream cheese and goat cheese. Eggs. Minimal sugar. Hella lemon zest. Crème fraîche. A pinch of salt.

He dips his entire hand into the batter, letting the excess drip off like he’s making a five-fingered candle, slowly licking off the creamy, lemony glove.

What’s missing, Dash?

Did you add a packet of lemonade powder?

I pretend I don’t hear his question.

We set all devices in the house for 40 minutes. We wait. We taste.

Mom, it’s a bit like a wet sponge smeared with goat cheese. Have you ever done this before?

Take two gives us hope: Smooth surface. No leaky water bath issues. But as it cools, a cake-wide lightning-shaped crack emerges.

Mom. Don’t worry. It’s going to be okay. We can just push it back together. Maybe we can glue it?

I release the pan’s latch and watch his face fall.

Mom! Why did all of the crust stick to the pan? Why is it caving in? I forgot to butter the pan. I didn’t use parchment paper. I didn’t let it cool properly.

We scoop up mangled scraps of cake with our fingers.

I was in a hurry to make a perfect cake.

Mom, we’re going to have to make like 27 of these to get it right!

We agree on the next steps: ditch the bland graham cracker crust and tone down the lemon goat flavor. We head to the market for reinforcements.

As I pull into a parking place, I find myself staring at a woman with blindingly white teeth and an expertly sculpted ass. The whole package glows like a painted, primped, pimped, pumped, shaved, lacquered North Star. I look down at my stained sweatshirt and linty leggings. I can smell my armpits.

I don’t want to fight that hard. I just want to make cheesecake.

Take three involves lemon cookies and a rocky beginning. I can’t remember how much sugar we used for our first two rounds.

Mom. You have to write things down. You can’t keep it all in your head.  

If he only knew. 

Mom, why wouldn't you just throw all the ingredients in together. Why do you scrape down the sides. What is cheese? You can do whatever you want so why don't you eat dessert all day long? Are you going to keep getting more and more wrinkles or will they just stop?

I answer every single question in full. Until his eyes glaze over. Until he wishes he never asked.

We effortlessly free our creation from the springform pan, slide it onto a cake stand, encircle it with lemon cookies.

Dash. What’s your verdict? Do we have a recipe? 

Yes. But no. I don’t know.

Exactly.

Recipe can be found in my Cooking What I Want column over at FOOD52.

TWO ENTREES. TWO DESSERTS. FOUR STORIES.

Here are some favorite posts from my Food52 column Cooking What I Want. I was thinking these recipes might work well for a crowd (if you happen to have one in your house this week). Click on the dish name or the food photo for a recipe.

And if you feel like it, let me know in the comments below what kinds of recipes you'd like me to develop this winter. I tend to make the same things over and over again so I would love some inspiration.

Happy winter solstice. And here's to a hella peaceful new year.

xoxo Phyllis

POMEGRANATE FLANK STEAK

Dash. Look outside. We fell back.

What?

It's 5:20 in the evening. But what time does it look like?

6:20.

And in the spring when it's 5:20 what will it look like?

4:20.

Here's the best part, Dash. On Monday morning, 7 AM will feel like 8 AM. Total. Score. But I'm bummed the weekend is over.

Me too. It was great because my daddy came home. 

That was my favorite part too. 

We carved pumpkins, we had pancakes, we had Halloween. There was candy. You ate my strawberry Starbursts. And then you made shakshuka.

I did?

No. Wait. Mom. You made baba ganoush. I get all these new words mixed up. And then we had plank steak.

Did you like the plank steak?

It was delicious. Sweet but sour. Juicy. It was awesome.

Dash, do you think that dinner tasted better because daddy was here?

Maybe a little. Because I don't like it when it's just three. I like the whole four.

Yes, my love. It was a perfect weekend.

I don’t tell him that nothing makes me happier than cooking for his daddy.

I don’t tell him his daddy doesn’t like flank steak, that I forgot, that I’ve lost touch.

I don’t tell him about the kiss his daddy gave me when he got home on Friday night, the one behind the bedroom door, against the Transformers poster, amongst the Legos and stuffed cats, right before the first trick or treaters arrived.

I don’t tell him how sometimes I hide in the kitchen and cook so that I don’t have to be fully present as a wife or a parent.

I don’t tell him how this was a record, how his daddy and I made it 36 hours before our first fight.

I don’t tell him about the fight, the same one we always have, the you are so controlling, followed by the you have no patience, ending, as always, with me sobbing on the kitchen floor.

I don’t tell him how blissed out it made me to roll over on Saturday morning to find a warm chest for my head, to interlace fingers with fingers and toes with toes, to feel my entire being enveloped by the steady rhythm of someone else’s breath.

I don’t tell him that it’s possible to love someone just as much now as you did 25 years ago.

I don’t tell him that I ate all of his Snickers bars for lunch.

I tell him only one thing.

Dash. It’s flank. Not plank.

SPICED LAMB PIE

When I was 10 years old, I wanted world peace, no capital punishment, and an endless supply of Fun Dip Sticks.

At 44, I want my kids’ homework done, the table set without triple requests, and for all of us to sit down to dinner at the same time with napkins in our laps.

I want my son to take a bath at least once a week.

I want a slow, luxurious husband-kiss delivered to the side of my neck while I chop herbs.

I want my fall filled with warm and cinnamony lamb pies.

I want to sit at the kitchen table—red wine in hand, breathing deeply, staring at the wall, thinking about nothing—while my husband does the dishes.

I want to stop yelling at my children.

I want all of the laundry folded and tucked away, the bills organized and paid, the leak under the kitchen sink fixed.

I want us all to feel safe.

Last Wednesday, at 6 PM, I try for these dreams.

But there are some issues.

My husband is out of town.

The red wine gives me a headache. I google perimenopause and red wine. The news is horrifying.

So I become a yelling machine.

No way. Not on a school night. No. I don’t care how nicely you ask. No screentime. No. No! Nooooooooooo.

No. Please, Dash. Don’t sharpen your pencil with a chef knife!

Pick up your lunchbox your Legos your jacket your dirty socks your homework your cheddar bunnies!!!

I turn away from it all to stir a pungent paste of garlic, anchovies, tomato paste, and spices into the ground lamb. My world fills with cinnamon, paprika, cumin. The juices reduce down and thicken. I turn off the heat and reach for the dough.

I hear a jumble of voices: teacher, mama, recipe writer. Don’t move your body, move the dough. Don’t overhandle it. Add flour. Move quickly. Look at the beautiful marbling of butter. Isn’t dough amazing? Want to make a honey pie with the scraps?

I pour the filling into the pie shell, slide as much cheese as possible underneath the top crust, and bust out a scrappy crimp.

I am no longer yelling.

I snap out of my pie trance and remember that kids need to be fed at a reasonable hour on a school night.

And 8:30 PM isn’t reasonable. 

I pull out the frozen pizza. 

BROWN BUTTER BLONDIES

Extra chocolate chips. Hella brown sugar. An overflowing tablespoon of vanilla extract.

For my daughter after her pull-ups. For my son as he tries to conjugate the verb dormir. For my husband as he drives away from our Thanksgiving weekend, away from our unit of four, away from our fully-loaded Christmas tree. For my mother because there is nothing better than feeding your mother.

Brown butter with toasted walnuts. No chocolate chips. Less brown sugar.

For me, right before bed, drifting off to sleep with butterscotch on my tongue after defiantly ignoring my toothbrush because I'm 44 and I can do what I want. 

Chocolate stirred in while the dough is still warm. Crinkly on the top, marbley brownie on the inside. 

For my grandmother, accompanied by lukewarm Lipton tea. Eaten with my hand resting on her impossibly fragile arm. In her hospital bed. After she says "I don't like blondies." After I say to the nurse, "did you know that I wanted to be my grandmother when I was little?" Before she actually bites in and smiles and reaches for more.

A heaping teaspoon of salt. Just enough chocolate chips so the butterscotch flavor doesn’t have to compete. Balanced. Nuts optional. 

Brought over by my neighbor: on my birthday or my son’s or just because, at the end of many rough days, after yet another miscarriage. Eaten while sobbing, letting the buttery chocolate squares fill me back up again. Shared with no one.

Versions of all four batches rest in my freezer, cubed and Ziplocked. Up for grabs. For the forgotten second-grade-holiday-party-potluck. For late nights with "The Newsroom" and red wine. For anyone who stops by. For Marianne, Simon, Margi, Sarah, Amy, Yalda, Laurel, Jen, Anya, Anna, my brother, my mom, my dad. I promised you all some blondies. Come over. Let me feed you.  

CARAMEL NUT TART WITH CHOCOLATE

I sit alone in the car, listening to reports about the upcoming hellastorm, a trail of broken windows from the previous night’s protests, how everyone is bringing booty back. I try to find my morning.   

Gather every lonely nut you can find in your pantry, fridge, freezer.

I squeeze my eyes shut, smack my cheeks, and try to kickstart my brain. I don’t know how I jumped out of bed this morning, how I got these clothes on my body, how I showed up in the kitchen. I have no memory of nuzzling one child and then the other awake. 

Roll out your tart dough. Find your favorite square pan.

My arms must have prepared three breakfasts, two lunches, one cup of very strong coffee. My voice must have guided with variations of take a deep breath, I will help you find your homework, yes your socks are clean and in the bin, no you can't get Snapchat.

Think about all of the tarts that have passed through this pan, this kitchen. Testing, re-testing, learning to let go of being perfect. 

My head drops to the steering wheel. I am feeling the side effects: the slow decline of my sacrum, my teeth, my brain. I need to look up. I need to break some rules. 

Caramelize the sugar. Stir in the cream. Watch it rise up like a volcano.

I re-enter the kitchen and the morning floods back. Every last word, struggle, sprint, geometry problem, glass of spilled milk. I hear myself say: first, make the bed. I see myself tucking, folding, scrubbing.

Add some salt. A bit more salt. Some vanilla. A bit more vanilla. 

I pick my kids up from school. As the helicopters start in for the fifth night in a row, I see my son cover his ears from the noise. I feel myself start a stumbling rant: Things must change and we can help and we must not just let things be and we are all equal and there is so much history filled with violence and oppression and we must march and chant and fight. I want to be the right parent. The clear parent. 

Pour the caramel-drenched walnuts, pine nuts, pecans, almonds into the raw pastry shell. Fuck par-baking. 

Dash, sometimes people have to make some noise. 

Stare at your pretty tart. Melt bitter chocolate. Get a spoon. Drizzle. Mess it up.