Firebrand Artisan Bread

If you live in Oakland, eat Firebrand Bread. 

If you want to eat well, eat fresh bread. If you want to eat fresh bread, make sure it is baked with good hands.

Everything you need to know about someone, you can tell by looking at their hands. His hands are tattooed and leathery. They have “Hard Work” stamped across the knuckles, as if the 36 hour shifts and incredible speed at which he works isn’t enough of an indicator. His hands are strong but never cruel, and they inspire respect. This is not a man you want to displease—his hands command dignity and you want their approval.

She has small hands, but they are also strong and she uses them with deft and a fierce tenderness. She loves the bread, but she does not coddle it and wait around for it to grow up. She fiercely, but gently, shapes pretzels and baguettes, calmly and quickly, making each dough believe that’s what it wants to be. She does not force the dough, but also does not ask its opinion. Each roll and batard believe that they are shaped as they should be. She is assertive and not afraid of asking for what she wants, but also understand that she is the farthest thing from a bully.

My mother’s hands are big and leathery too. I have never seen them painted. I asked her once if I could paint them and she just smiled. My mothers hands are shaping hands too. Good at shaping bread and dinner, but also at shaping people. Kneading her children into good people so that we too, like Colleen’s baguettes, believe that we are exactly what we are supposed to be.

I have known many hands in my life. Soft hands, mean hands, timid hands, misshapen hands, desirous hands, questioning hands, soon to be gone hands.

So if you find yourself under the bridge, near a row of buildings, underneath the single street light, look closer. There is a strip of light shining from under the roll up door. And even though the night seems quiet and abandoned, look inside. There is a hive of activity; florescent lights, Social Distortion, smoke, oven doors opening and closing, and the scramble of hands shaping, legs strutting, and mouths moving. You’ll see past the temporary shifting bodies to see a man and a woman. They stand, never quite still, flittering and humming, insane and dedicated, to each other and their work.

Absent minded and Snowballs

I have been absent. Absent from this blog, absent from work, absent from myself. There is a shell that looks and talks like me, that walks and laughs like me, that works just as hard--But the filling has flown the coop.
I'm not quite sure where I've gone. Maybe that is what is left to be decided. My bones are tired and my hands swollen, and the space of a day, filled with an infinite amount of work and chatter, there simply isn't enough space for my heart to catch up.
So I lay here somewhere, in this liminal space, this purgatory of neither happiness nor sadness, and I suppose part of be is just waiting. Waiting for time to pass, for some sign, for some shoe-shaking, dust-raising, hair-flinging lightening bolt to show itself.
I don't have enough time in this life to wait, but I also don't seem to have the will or drive in a day to do anything else.

So in the meantime, I bake holiday cookies, I go to work, I read, and I try to let my hands relax every once in a while.

These are cheerful cookies. They are light and round and bright and it is hard to be sad when you are munching on one. They are easy too and very satisfying. They are small clouds of sugar dust to melt in your mouth and make the world seem just a little lighter.

Snowballs

1 cup butter
1/2 cup powdered sugar
1 1/2 tsp vanilla
2 1/4 cups flour (or cake flour if you have it)
1 cup chopped pecans
1/4 tsp salt

1/3 cup powdered sugar (for rolling)

Cream butter and sugar until light and fluffy. Add vanilla, flour, pecans and salt. Mix until just combined. Roll out into little balls on a baking sheet. Make them smaller than you might think. Imagine a large marble. (They are so much for satisfying when you can pop a whole one in your mouth).
Bake at 350 for 12-15 min. They won't look much different, but their bottoms will be golden.
Roll in powdered sugar when cool.

Date Cake

One of my favorite and best cakes. It is moist, delicious, and filling. It is also a great holiday treat!

Date Cake

9 oz dates-pitted and chopped

¾ tsp baking soda

1 ¼ cup water

2 tbl Grand Marnier (optional)

2 tsp instant espresso powder (Optional)

¾ cup butter

1 cup brown sugar

2 eggs

1 tsp vanilla

1 ¼ cup flour

1/4 tsp clove

1/4 tsp nutmeg

3/4 tsp cinnamon

½ tsp salt

½ tsp baking soda

Preheat oven to 325.

In a small saucepan combine chopped dates, water, and baking soda. Cook over medium heat until dates are soft and it is one big gooey mixture. Do not worry—It will turn brown and even slightly green. Do not burn, but cook until the mixture looks like one cohesive jam. You can keep cooking this at a low heat while you mix the rest of the cake.

Cream butter and brown sugar together. Add eggs and vanilla. Slowly add flour and spices until just combined. Add date mixture and mix until just combined. Do not over mix. Pour into prepared pan (9” cake pan or 9X13 pan) and bake at 325 for 40-60 min.

Breathe deeply anyways

It grew on crooked lumber and broken glass

It grew in potholes and highway divides

It grew in sidewalk splits and rusted drains

It will grow. Trust this. It will grow. Whatever we plant will grow, so make it worthwhile.

Our love and California poppies line the sides of the road and fill the spaces between hope and grief.

We must carry grief, gratitude, and grace. And we must do it humbly and nobly.

There is no greater gift and pain than the opportunity to be human.

There is no task more important.

Give your heart to itself and to the world. Learn the dance of space between and fill it. Keep your bones in your skin and keep your skin a part of humanity.

Believe in magic. It is the only thing that will carry you through. Bend your knees and say thank you, and then rise to your feet and give it all back.

The world is in the palm of your hand. It was placed there gently the moment you took your first breath. The air has become polluted, but breathe deeply anyways.

We must carry grief, gratitude, and grace. And we must do it humbly and nobly.

There is no greater gift and pain than the opportunity to be human.

There is no task more important.

Coffee Cake

I love coffee cake. And yes, I know, it is just about the worst thing I could eat for breakfast. I metabolize all that white flour and sugar in about 30 min and end up grumpy and still hungry, not to mention feeling a little sluggish and uninspired. But still, I LOVE coffee cake. And now that I am grown-up and a little better at taking care of my needs, I make sure to fry and egg or two, have some sausage or bacon, and then have my slice of coffee cake. 

This is my favorite coffee cake, adapted and sized down. An incredible mentor and friend named Cassie created this recipe, and since she regularly cooked for small armies, I sized this down to what a "normal" person might make. This cake freezes incredibly well, so if you have an extra cake pan around, freeze this before baking, and pull out of the freezer to bake when you really get the coffee cake urge. This also really lends itself to additions: I throw in nuts, frozen blueberries or sliced pears when I have them. 

Coffee Cake

Preheat oven to 350*

Butter a 9" cake pan. 

Combine in mixing bowl and mix until just blended. Do not over mix:

         2 1/4 cups flour

         ½ tsp. salt

         1 T. cinnamon

         3/4 tsp. ginger

         1 cups sugar

         3/4 cups melted butter

 Remove 3/4 cups of this mix to another bowl. This will be the topping.

 Add to remaining mix:

         1 tsp. baking soda

         1 tsp. baking powder

         1 eggs

         1 cups milk or buttermilk

Mix fully, but again, do not over mix. 

Pour this into your prepared pan, and then sprinkle your saved topping over it, distributing it evenly.  

Bake at 350 F for 40-60 minutes or until a toothpick inserted comes out clean. 

Saturday Mornings

The world begs of you to answer. Six in the morning comes so soon and the wind whispers good morning as I tuck my elbows into my sides and brave the world. My eyes take a while to unfurl and my ears patiently open. I love mornings in the kitchen. I love being alone and waking my legs up by moving between fridge, stove, and cutting board. I love paying close attention to my hands chopping fruit and waking my arms up by beginning to knead bread.

Early mornings are when your kisses lay tucked in the crook of my neck. My ears fill with your hot breath and the sounds of birds chirping. Early mornings are hope and ripe and possibility. Early mornings are beginnings and secrets and tousled and turned and dragged from sleep. Early mornings are your legs wrapped in mine, your heart beating against my ear. Early mornings are coffee and your arms wrapped around my belly, whispering happy day in my ear. Early mornings are my favorite and an endless supply of creativity and possibility.

Your forearms fit my belly perfectly. They wrap around front and your chin rests on my shoulder. Your hands clasp in front of my belly button and you sway side to side. I look up and you look down and we don’t need to say anything. 

Right now, just for a little bit, time pauses and leaves us with a little longer to say, Hello. 

Thanksgiving

There have been a few times in my life that I can remember being brought to my knees and completly humbled by the generosity of strangers. This is one of those times.

I am sixteen. My heart is softly breaking and growing, slowly wrestling it's way out of the cocoon. This will be the first of many Thanksgivings away from home, but that only makes it harder. I live in Argentina with a sweet, although strange, host family. Their generosity overwhelms me at times as they read into the little spanish I know and surprise me with gifts or food they think I'll like. I try and become family, while keeping a safe distance from becoming "hija."

I told them about Thanksgiving in one of first, flooded weeks I was there. I barely remember how I described it all--with many hand gestures and drawn pictures I assume. I talked about turkey, giving thanks, and cranberry sauce. They thought the whole combination of food was strange and didn't seem to go together. They were incredulous that we ate turkey of all things for a celebration. Why eat turkey when you can have asado?!

I spoke to my family back home earlier in the day and spent the rest of it hiding in my room and running to the bathroom for random waves of tears and sadness. I shared a room and I couldn't let myself cry in front of my host sister. To let anyone know that I was hurting would be an absolute breach of the tough outer shell I was busy cultivating.

I remember feeling bad that I didn't help with dinner so when Mama called for dinner I sheepishly wiped my eyes, took a deep breath, and went into the kitchen.

There was an entire, traditional Thanksgiving feast laid out before me.

There was cranberry sauce, a brave attempt at stuffing, fresh bread from the market, mashed potatoes, and a giant ham.

Mama's first words were "We couldn't find turkey anywhere so we had to get ham."

Choking back tears, I managed "It's beautiful, I have to go wash my hands," and booked it into the bathroom, locked the door, and melted into a pool of teenage tears. Incredibly homesick and sad that I wasn't with my "real" family, extraordinarily awed and humbled by the gift this family had given me. They barely knew me yet they were doing everything they could to make me feel welcome, to make me feel home. I was crying for happiness, for sadness, for the simple overwhelming presence of Grace and the sweetness and safety that has always found me. The world has taken care of my in the most tender ways and I have the utmost respect and gratitude for this.

I eventually wipe my eyes, apply even more black eyeliner, and stick my chin up. It is time to say thank you.

I come back to eat and we hold hands and give thanks. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

And we ate ham for the next week.

Moons

In the space between a breath in and a breath out hangs the full moon. A brilliant orange coin luxuriously sinking beneath the city skyline, taking her time. Tonight she can afford to take longer, to allow you to look, to show off a little, before she dips beneath the earth and sings for us to answer. It is the same moon that instills freedom in my heart.

It is the same moon that has me howling out my car window, screaming, “I am a wild woman!” cackling like a witch. 

It is the same moon that I blow kisses and wink at.

It is the same moon that I shouted and cursed at, willing the Gods or whomever to mend my life or yours.

It is the same moon that covered our skins and kept our secrets.

It is the same moon that slips into my room and reminds me of magic.

It is the same moon that lends its rhythm and cycle to my body.

It is the same moon that asks for nothing in return. 

Sunday Morning Puffy Pancakes

We wake up slowly. It's Sunday morning and time twists and bends to our pleasure. I drift barefoot into our kitchen and make these puffy pancakes. They remind me of being little and hot steam shouting "pouf!" into our mouths. They remind me of my mother and her sweet way of making breakfast sweet and kind. She always made muffins, cinnamon rolls, oatmeal, and these pancakes, among many other things. I always remember the way my mom ate. She had an especially beautiful way of always looking like her food tasted so delicious. She used to sit on a stool and look out onto our garden, eating rice crackers topped with almond butter and sipping hot water. I will always remember watching her do this, and always thinking that it looked so delicious. One time I asked her to make me some--Upon eating it myself, I found it entirely unappetizing.
I digress.

This recipe is a compilation of many different puffy pancake recipes that I have squirreled away in my every expanding recipe book. Aaron doesn't like cooked fruit (something I have endlessly tried to change) so I made his plain. You can add any addition of fruit to these, or leave it as a topping. I got the idea of cooking each pancake separately from Smitten Kitchen, which I loved, because it also meant that I got to put apples in mine and leave Aaron's simple.

Puffy Personal Pancakes 
Adapted from a random magazine cutout and Smitten Kitchen
Yields 2 pancakes

4 eggs
1 tablespoon sugar
1/2 tsp salt
2/3 cup flour
2/3 cup milk
2 tablespoons melted butter
1 tsp vanilla
For Apple variation:
2 apples granny smith or otherwise
2 tablespoons butter for cooking
1 tsp cinnamon

Powdered sugar for dusting

*Note: I believe that this recipe is usually made with a real blender, but all we have is an immersion blender. After a short hissy fit because I was trying to skirt corners and not melt the butter, everything turned out fine, thanks to Aarons patience. If using an immersion blender, I recommend using melted butter. If you are using a regular blender, you'll probably be okay with softened butter.

Preheat oven to 400. Butter two 9 inch cake pans.

If using apples, slice thinly. Melt 2 tablespoons of butter in a cast iron skillet. Cook apples in skillet until soft. Add cinnamon and stir.

Combine eggs in blender. Blend briefly until broken and pale. Add the rest of the ingredients and blend on high until smoothy incorporated.
Divide apples into the two buttered pans. Pour cake batter over the two pans. Put in the oven and bake at 400 for 20 min, then reduce heat to 350 and cook for another 5.

Serve hot with powdered sugar and fruit.

Upside Down Cakes and Otherwise

Life is simple here tonight. Work, errands, a little babysitting, and now home, glass of wine and slice of cake in hand.
I have been plagued by a sense of insignificance and it is wearing at my bones. If it were a fire, things might be better, but instead it is a waft of air, a tiny flake in the wind, a sweater that doesn't fit right. Something brushing up against me when I have let my guards down just a little. When I am not thinking of work or dinner or showering or exercising, this niggle starts to wiggle its way into my heart.
I believe that we all want to be remembered. I came into this world wanting to make a difference and I traveled and I watched and I listened, thinking that it was all fuel for my fire. But now I am home and I am making a home, and I can see the life of a wife, mother, grandmother laid out in front of me.
These are things I want. But I also want to make a difference. I also want to be remembered beyond apple pies and lullabies. My life is good and fine and mostly beautiful. And that just isn't enough these days. I want my life to be exquisite and memorable. I want me life to be a blimp on the lifeline of mankind. I want it to be a spark, a flame, a bottle rocket where there was none before.

But instead I sit here. I drink wine and I write about the cake I made. I make up excuses like my lack of funds, or my unwillingness to embarrass my family. Does insignificance ever show its twisted face at your door? Do you also wonder whether to let it in and entertain him, for hopes that he might spark some sort of fire? Or do you cautiously close the door on him, knowing nothing good can come from an unsettled heart?

But however insignificant it is, I hope you make this cake. It is warming and sugary, and makes use of those cranberries that may have been staring you down.
This recipe is almost exactly the one in "Chez Panisse Fruits" with a few minor alterations.

Cranberry Upside Down Cake

4 Tablespoons unsalted butter
3/4 cup brown sugar
1 tsp almond extract
2 3/4 cup cranberries
Juice of one orange


1 1/2 cups flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/4 tsp salt
4 oz (1 stick) butter
1 cup sugar
1 tsp vanilla extract
2 eggs separated
1/2 cup whole milk
1/4 tsp cream of tarter


Use a 9 in round cake pan. Combine the butter and brown sugar in the cake pan and set on your stove. Heat and stir until the mixture begins to turn darker brown and caramelize. Add the almond extract and remove from heat. Let cool then add the cranberries. I suggest 2 3/4 cups, but really just enough to cover the bottom and you can fake it either way. Drizzle the orange juice over the top.

Combine your flour, baking powder and salt. Cream the butter and sugar until pale and fluffy. Add the egg yolks, scraping down the bowl to make sure that it is all incorporated. Add the vanilla extract. Now, add the flour then milk, alternating in two batches. (Add half the flour, then half the milk; repeat). Whip the egg whites with the cream of tarter until they form stiff peaks. Fold half the egg whites into the batter, then the rest. Remember to be gentle but firm when folding the egg whites in. You don't want to over mix the batter, but you also don't want to be a sissy and not incorporate it all.
Pour this over the cranberries into your pan.

Bake at 375 for 50-60 min. The top will be browner and you want the middle to feel firm. The cake will also start to pull away from the sides of the pan.
Remove from oven and let cool for 10 min. You don't want to let it cool too long or else the cranberries will endlessly stick to the pan. But don't flip it over too soon, or you will have a hot gooey mess in your kitchen.
Serve with lightly sweetened whipping cream flavored with a little orange or almond liqueur.

Susan's Chocolate Chip Cookies

I was homeschooled until 9^th grade and by default most of my friends were homeschooled too. While other children our age were sitting neatly in desks and mostly likely learning how to be cool, we were roaming about town, climbing trees, making mud cakes, and swinging on trees to our hearts content. 

Growing up my best friends was Marshall Brame. She put up with my earliest baking experiements, as well as being my constant companion through the most awkward years of growing up. Although we grew apart as childhood friends often do, she continues to be an extraordinary and unique woman. The length of time between conversation is unimportant as I will always consider her one of my oldest friends. 

There is magic in someone else’s mother. While my own mother made delicious food and always cooked incredible meals, some how Marshall’s mom Susan had a certain way of preparing food that I always loved. 

She made peanut butter and apple butter sandwiches seem special, and sometimes she packed juice for us. I remember that she always dressed her salads and I loved it; it seemed so genius to reduce the step of messily trying to mix in your dressing. These are her chocolate chip cookies and they were always my favorite growing up. Although she swears that this is her recipe, no matter how many times I try it I can never get it exactly the way I remember it.

Taste is laden with time and memories, so perhaps the cookies will never taste the same as they did when I was nine. Either way, these simple cookies are incredibly nourishing to the soul, and easy to make. Double this and slip them in your children’s pockets, or leave a plate on your neighbors doorstep. These are cookies to be shared. 

Susan’s Chocolate Chip Cookies

1 cup butter

1 ½ cup brown sugar

2 eggs

1 ½ tsp vanilla

1 tsp. baking soda

½ tsp salt

1 ½ cups flour

3 cups oats

1 ½ cup chocolate chips

Preheat oven to 375. 

Cream together butter and brown sugar. Add eggs and vanilla. Mix in soda, salt and flour, stirring strongly, but gently. Add the oats and chocolate chips and mix until just combined. Chill batter before baking. Drop by the tablespoon onto a baking sheet and bake for 8 min. They are done before you know it! 

The Everlasting Beating

Monday night meetings and again my heart comes undone. I am reminded, over and over again, of the sweetness and destruction our simple lives bring. The death of her mother, the death of her lover, the death of her baby....And mothers being made, lovers making love, babies being born. I cry, later, because there is hardly a moment in today to make space of tears. There is hardly a moment to even feel the loss and gain of everyday life. So I keep moving, I keep working, I keep making dinner, because some nights that is all I know how to do. Some nights potato leek soup is the only thing that keeps thoughts of rape victims, violent crime, and deadly car accidents at the door. Some nights making pumpkin pie is the only thing that keeps my feet moving when I think of the loss of your mother.

I often wonder if this beating will ever stop. We are beat down constantly, everyday, by stereotypes, gender roles, fear, crime, homelessness, the list goes on. And then I remember what else beats. The sun. Your baby and your pots and pans. The snare drum of your favorite band. A friend knocking at my wooden door. And above all, our Hearts. They will always be the last one beating.

So today I am trying to stand. Grief in one hand, Grace in the other. And I am trying simply just to stand. And remember that my heart will keep beating. And remember that everything I love will eventually be lost. And remember to keep loving it all anyways. Love it all, anyways.

The Sad Decline of Homemade Pies

The Bakery has been flooded with Thanksgiving orders. Pumpkin pies upon pumpkin pies will fill our ovens the day before Thanksgiving and be swept away to impress friends and family. One less thing on a host's to-do list, and since our pies are as close to "homemade" as any bakery I know, what's the harm in buying one?

Yes, I understand that I should be happy, even joyous that the Bakery is doing so well. That people are so eager to serve our pie that they will spend $40 to pick it up the day before Thanksgiving. That's right, $40 dollars, and it will be a day old by the time they eat it.

This makes me inexplicably sad.

Because along with the art of making pie goes the art of teaching, the gift of passing down knowledge, secrets, the magic ingredient that will make the pie sing. The simple task of making pie is humbling and is a gift. It is an offering and without the humility or desire to make it ourselves, also goes our strength in taking care of each other. We must offer our bodies the best that our hands could create.

So here is my favorite pumpkin pie recipe. It is simple and the best place to start. Do not worry about making a "Brulee Bourbon Maple Pie." Start with the basics. There will be many more pies to come this month, and comment with requests! But please, make your own pie this thanksgiving. You can even make the pie crust now, freeze it, and be even more prepared for the big day. Please do not forget that magic lies in the smallest, almost forgotten things, like pumpkin pie and goodnight kisses.

Alma Magic Pumpkin Pie

Basic Pie Crust: 

1 1/4 cup flour

1 1/2 tsp sugar

1/4 tsp salt

4 oz butter cut in ½ inch pieces

1/4 cup ice water

Make sure the butter and water are cold to start. I believe in using our hands as tools, but some people prefer a butter cutter.

Mix the flour, sugar and salt together. Add the butter and mix with your hands until the mixture resembles peas and crumbs. Peas and crumbs repeat it to yourself. Once the mixture resembles peas and crumbs add the ice water. Depending on the day, the season and how hot your hands are, you might need more or less water. Start with the ½ cup and fluff the water into the mixture. The key here is gentle coaxing and fluffing. You are not trying to force, knead, or muscle your way into this pie dough. It is a delicate creature and likes to be treated as such. Gently fluff the water into the dough until it just begins to come together. You should still be able to see little pieces of butter in the dough. Shape it into one ball. Again the trick here is being gentle. Coax and ease it; now is not the time for packing it into your hand like play-dough. Tuck it into saran wrap and refrigerate until you are ready to bake. 

**Note: you do not always have to refrigerate the dough before rolling it out, but I believe that it comes out better if it is given time to rest before baking. If you double-wrap the dough, you can freeze it for up to a month.

For Pumpkin Pie: Roll out pie dough and press into a 9-in pie shell. Crimp the edges. Place aluminum foil filled with rice or beans in the pie shell. This will hold down the crust while you pre-bake it so it doesn't get funky on you. Bake at 350 for 20-30 min, until the foil comes away easily from the edges and it starts to look golden. Remove from oven and turn oven down to 325 to make your pumpkin pie. 

Filling:

2 cups pumpkin puree
1/2 cup Light brown sugar or Maple Syrup
2 tsp Ground cinnamon
1 1/2 tsp Ground ginger
1 tsp Ground cloves
3/4 Ground nutmeg
1/8 tsp Black pepper
1 tsp Salt

3 Large whole eggs

1 Large egg yolk

1 cup Heavy Cream

1 Tbl Brandy

2 tsp Vanilla 

In a perfect world I would grind all my spices, but who has time for that anyways? If you have the resources, it will add an extra "oomph" to the pie, but don't sweat using pre-ground spices.
Combine the pumpkin, sugar and spices and mix well. Really mix until it is smooth and there are no traces of sneaky cinnamon hiding at the bottom. Add your eggs, cream, brandy, and vanilla and mix well. Pour into your prepared pie crust and bake at 325 for about an hour. The pie will still be wobbly and soft in the middle and should move as one cohesive jiggle. The filling will continue to set as it cools.
Serve with whipped cream or vanilla ice cream.


**Note: All recipes are my original creation unless otherwise noted.

Smitten Kitchen Inspirations

Ok, so I know that this is at least the third time that I have started a blog. But please, don't give up on me just yet.
After hearing about Smitten Kitchen again and again from friends, family, and the random street friends I always seem to make, I finally checked out her book. And it ROCKS! It has beautiful pictures, snarky writing, and creative+easy recipes. So, I know that I am a little late to the Smitten Kitchen fan club, but after finally getting the book and the spending the night pouring through it, my blood runs fiery with inspiration, creativity, and hope, once again. I mean, this lady has the dream job--cooking whatever suits her fancy, then writing about it, all while getting to be at home and take care of her little.

So, seeing as that is basically my dream job, I am here to create my own "smitten" future. Except the obvious difference--Me. I am probably not as snarky, or as obsessive, and I won't be sticking straight to recipes either. I promise to deliver stories, paintings, poems--If I could send you all feathers or flowers or even golden leaves from our gritty streets I would. I would love to publish your stories/paintings/feathers, if you send me some.

This blog is about miracles and deep breaths. It is about awkward moments and secret exchanges. It is about newborn babies feet and the way the sun shines at 4pm on Bodega Bay. Mostly though, it is about magic.

I hope this finds its way under your door, into your pocket, slipped through your mail slot, or whispered in the wind. I hope the full moon tonight takes you by surprise and replenishes your soul.

Mostly though, I hope you believe in magic.

Begin. And Again. And Begin Again.

These are stories to keep you warm, to keep you company, to gather your hems about your ankles and wrap you in a delicious cloak.

These are to let you know that you are not alone.

These are tales to wrap you in red velvet and whisper in your ear. These are words of stardust to sprinkle on your hair, hands, and feet and to gather in your pocket.

These are the stories that gather in my bones and lay on top of my skin, keeping me warm for the night.

These will melt like lemon drops on your tongue.

These are recipes to use. They are meant to be given away, to be doubled and taken to your neighbor’s house. They are for comfort, for joy, and for pride. Above all, they are recipes for nourishment.

Start with what you love.

Ask your belly what she craves.

Gently coax that into what your tongue desires.

Begin,

End.

Then…Give it all away.