We drive at a breakneck speed in an open-air taxi around winding roads that climb higher and higher away from the marina that sits at sea level. The air is hot and heavy, as if it carries more weight here than back at home, freighted with the scent of salt water and coconut and something spicy but citrusy. We pass Cinnamon Bay and I clutch at the edge of the taxi’s door frame, sure that we’re going to drop right off the sheer face of the cliff to our left every time a truck comes whooshing past us without slowing down.
Read moreBROWN BUTTER SOURDOUGH CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIES
For the first time in so long, I feel a lightness and a brightness. I think it’s the physical manifestation of hope—there’s an almost electric undercurrent in the air, as if everyone was standing in a silent room and suddenly there’s faint (really good, very catchy) music playing.
If I narrow in to the smallest possible sphere of my life for the past 6 months—to just this house and this street and the daily experience of sleeping and waking and cooking and existing and so on—I’d actually say that life has felt joyful and good. If I stay in the exact present moment (which a small baby pretty much demands most of the time), then I’m generally anchored by pleasant sensations, as if the day is quilt stitched together out of discreet bits of thread—a cup of tea, one length of thread; a walk down over to the little harbor, one length of thread; a chapter of “A Burning” by Megha Majumdar, one length of thread; a run down Moores Lane then over past the Island’s End golf course; another length of thread.
Read moreGARLICKY BRAISED ESCAROLE + CHICKPEAS
One of the nicest smells in the world—in my humble opinion—is the scent of bread baking. It’s nice in all seasons, but especially in colder months. To walk into a bakery on a frigid snowy day, pushing open the door and stepping into the warm, yeasty-smelling air, is an extremely pleasurable moment. Other baking smells are enticing too, of course: cinnamon mingled with sugar or chocolate chip cookies right out of the oven or the steam rising when you slice into a loaf of freshly baked banana bread or the spicy kick of ginger and cloves in a square of moist gingerbread cake.
Read moreBROCCOLI AND CHEESE QUICHE
Growing up, we always ate dinner together at the table. This was a non-negotiable—no matter how busy the day or how plentiful the homework waiting or how foul the moods among us, we sat down together. One of us might be sulking: refusing to pass the Jane’s salt and staring down at our plate, but we’d never dare not join in.
With four girls, all two years apart, the nights were (pleasantly) chaotic. The sky outside would be dark; the lights in the kitchen bright and inviting. Pots on the stove would be bubbling merrily away, the smell of chicken stock and melting cheese hanging in the air. Unzipped backpacks would be slung on the stools lined up against the kitchen island; notebooks and textbooks open on the counter, uncapped pens and a scientific calculator stacked haphazardly next to them.
Read morePASTA WITH WILTED LETTUCE + PEAS
There’s so much to say sometimes. Sentences that I want to write keep popping into my head at inopportune times—like when I’m riding my bike or taking a shower or trying to carry 3 boxes of seltzer into the kitchen or assessing the feasibility of changing a diaper on an open ferry deck full of people without baby wipes and without touching any public surfaces. (Spoiler alert: It’s possible but extremely challenging and yes, I’m basically a wizard of parenting.)
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