"Do you remember how we danced that first night? We were so far from this plane, this reality, dancing so fast, so intently, shaking and spinning around. Your hair flew about your face like strings of laughter, bouncing in your currents. I remember feeling infinite. And I knew that I couldn't say it that night. Not while I felt like that, not while you were so beautiful and free.
The next morning I wanted to tell you, but you were busy feeding me delight by the spoonful, and your eyes were all electric. I was enchanted by you , so I didn't ruin the moment.
And then we rented those bikes that we rode for miles along the coast. I might have said it over dinner that night, but we had mussels. You were such an adorable sight, tearing the shells apart, that I stayed silent. We had ice cream for dessert: green tea with grapefruit. You had said it sounded so strange that we had to try it. It was delicious.
So here we are and I still haven't told you, because every moment was just too perfect to change. See, the thing is, we can't go home. Don't look at me like that. I gave the cat to our neighbors, and I prank called your boss, my boss, the landlord and the police. I also sold our car and furniture. I told all our friends that we were only pretending to like them, and asked them not to call. We can never go back. We're free! So, no, I'm not going to pack."
I've felt this urge to write more, but I have no idea what to write about. So I'm going to start posting blurbs, essays, vignettes, from prompts that I come across. Enjoy.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Fresh baked bread and an argument for selfishness.
My dad wasn't around much when I was little, but when he was he liked to make breakfast. I remember standing on a chair in front of the stove watching him make fried apples. That was what he taught me, fried apples and tomato sauce.
I learned how to cook intuitively from my mother. She taught me that if things smell good together they probably taste good together, that lemon is a good substitute for salt, and that baking soda and yogurt make for a really good pancake batter. But I still consider most of what I know about cooking to be self taught, through exploration, trial and error. What my mother really taught me was how to bake. She helped with cookies, cakes, muffins and quick breads. And when I was ready she walked me through making my first yeasted (is that even a word?) bread. I don't remember how old I was, probably somewhere around twelve. She taught me to poke the dough before I punched it down, not to just assume that it was done rising; showed me how to roll the edges of the dough under so that the top of the loaf would be seamless. She taught me that a thoroughly baked loaf will sound hollow when you tap it. I'm nineteen now, and not much has changed. When I decided that I wanted to try making sourdough breads I called her up. She described to me the process of making a starter, and how to maintain it. And, of course, when I pulled my first loaf of sourdough out of the oven I called her immediately. That was just a few weeks ago. I made a large loaf of sourdough rye with dill, thyme, and fresh cracked pepper in it. The bread was very sour, like any good sourdough. But I didn't care for the consistency. It was dense and didn't toast very well. It was most defiantly a beginner's loaf. So yesterday I decided to try again.
I mixed up a good sponge with whole wheat flour this time, and let it rise for almost nineteen hours (sourdough needs a longer first rising time). By the morning it was beautifully puffy and bubbly, with little wheat germ ringed holes where air bubbles had burst. After mixing in more flour, olive oil, eggs, oats, sunflower seeds and millet I realized that while I had enough dough for two loaves I only possess one loaf pan. Here were two perfectly (well, almost perfectly) formed, crunchy, multi grain loaves, and I only had one pan to put them in. All I had were muffin tins. No house needs as many muffin tins as my house has. So I ended up sliding one loaf pan and one tray of roll filled muffin tins into the oven.
And I just pulled them out. This batch of sourdough is much better than the last. Not as sour as I would have liked, but both the bread and the rolls have a good, thick, crunchy crust and they're all light and fluffy inside. And, it would seem, the Jewish mama gene is going pretty strong. As soon as the rolls were done I started calling people over to eat them. This has always been a goal of mine: cooking and giving. I don't care who eats it, only that someone does and that their day is a little brighter for it. I love feeding people good food. And knowing that it's good because I made it and there's nothing in it that I don't know about. This high I get from nourishing people, that's why I've been so careful with my money; so that I can do it forever some day. It's so beautiful, giving people comfort and happiness and nourishment from something so small. And it's so little for me to do, you know? To do something I love and that makes me happy. But that it also makes the people I touch happy? That's amazing. It is amazing that all I have to do, all anyone has to do, to make myself and other people happy is to do these things I love. Which sounds almost trite and silly. But imagine a small warm coffee shop in a rainy college town. It has all sorts of cast off, miss matched coffee tables. Some are low to the ground and have cushions around them, and others are higher up with colorful assortments of chairs. There are bookshelves along one wall, and the corners have old easy chairs. There are photos on another wall of places and people, and drawings from some of the kids who drop by. The whole place is in reds, browns, oranges and yellows. It smells like fresh bread and coffee. How happy would I be, to be making that bread and coffee? And how happy would you be, to stumble upon it one day? Maybe it's just a normal day, or maybe it's raining and you're just a little down. Maybe it's the worst day you've had in a while. In any of those cases, can you tell me that the warmth you'd find wouldn't leave you just a little happier?
I learned how to cook intuitively from my mother. She taught me that if things smell good together they probably taste good together, that lemon is a good substitute for salt, and that baking soda and yogurt make for a really good pancake batter. But I still consider most of what I know about cooking to be self taught, through exploration, trial and error. What my mother really taught me was how to bake. She helped with cookies, cakes, muffins and quick breads. And when I was ready she walked me through making my first yeasted (is that even a word?) bread. I don't remember how old I was, probably somewhere around twelve. She taught me to poke the dough before I punched it down, not to just assume that it was done rising; showed me how to roll the edges of the dough under so that the top of the loaf would be seamless. She taught me that a thoroughly baked loaf will sound hollow when you tap it. I'm nineteen now, and not much has changed. When I decided that I wanted to try making sourdough breads I called her up. She described to me the process of making a starter, and how to maintain it. And, of course, when I pulled my first loaf of sourdough out of the oven I called her immediately. That was just a few weeks ago. I made a large loaf of sourdough rye with dill, thyme, and fresh cracked pepper in it. The bread was very sour, like any good sourdough. But I didn't care for the consistency. It was dense and didn't toast very well. It was most defiantly a beginner's loaf. So yesterday I decided to try again.
I mixed up a good sponge with whole wheat flour this time, and let it rise for almost nineteen hours (sourdough needs a longer first rising time). By the morning it was beautifully puffy and bubbly, with little wheat germ ringed holes where air bubbles had burst. After mixing in more flour, olive oil, eggs, oats, sunflower seeds and millet I realized that while I had enough dough for two loaves I only possess one loaf pan. Here were two perfectly (well, almost perfectly) formed, crunchy, multi grain loaves, and I only had one pan to put them in. All I had were muffin tins. No house needs as many muffin tins as my house has. So I ended up sliding one loaf pan and one tray of roll filled muffin tins into the oven.
And I just pulled them out. This batch of sourdough is much better than the last. Not as sour as I would have liked, but both the bread and the rolls have a good, thick, crunchy crust and they're all light and fluffy inside. And, it would seem, the Jewish mama gene is going pretty strong. As soon as the rolls were done I started calling people over to eat them. This has always been a goal of mine: cooking and giving. I don't care who eats it, only that someone does and that their day is a little brighter for it. I love feeding people good food. And knowing that it's good because I made it and there's nothing in it that I don't know about. This high I get from nourishing people, that's why I've been so careful with my money; so that I can do it forever some day. It's so beautiful, giving people comfort and happiness and nourishment from something so small. And it's so little for me to do, you know? To do something I love and that makes me happy. But that it also makes the people I touch happy? That's amazing. It is amazing that all I have to do, all anyone has to do, to make myself and other people happy is to do these things I love. Which sounds almost trite and silly. But imagine a small warm coffee shop in a rainy college town. It has all sorts of cast off, miss matched coffee tables. Some are low to the ground and have cushions around them, and others are higher up with colorful assortments of chairs. There are bookshelves along one wall, and the corners have old easy chairs. There are photos on another wall of places and people, and drawings from some of the kids who drop by. The whole place is in reds, browns, oranges and yellows. It smells like fresh bread and coffee. How happy would I be, to be making that bread and coffee? And how happy would you be, to stumble upon it one day? Maybe it's just a normal day, or maybe it's raining and you're just a little down. Maybe it's the worst day you've had in a while. In any of those cases, can you tell me that the warmth you'd find wouldn't leave you just a little happier?
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