when all else fails, bake a pie

I’m having a blue day. Maybe it’s the sinking temperatures, the grey skies, fluctuant hormones, approaching holidays, or all of the above. Looking forward to my busy up-coming weekends now that I’m a vendor at the esteemed Eastern Market (Capitol Hill EM- lest you Detroiters think I’ll be setting up a table next to the smokey wintery winds of Bert’s BBQ.)  I have so much work to do. Unfortunately, it’s one of those days when the best I’ve got is just to remind myself that this too shall pass. So, I press on.

There’s still no bun in the oven despite our shrines, vibes and incantations. Oh, and the last 4 months of seemingly constant trips our the local baby lab, aka fertility clinic. Is there a saint you can bury in the backyard for this sort of thing? That worked so well for us before when we miraculously accomplished the impossible and sold our house in Detroit.  And speaking of miracles, the more I learn about fertility the more I can’t BELIEVE that any of us are here. It’s such a one in a million deal and even more so for an oldster like myself. It’s a wonder I ever wasted an ounce of concern on “unwanted” pregnancies.

I’ve made the mistake of setting mental milestones of when I was “positive” we’d have great news to share with our families. I played the scenarios over and over in my head, waiting for just the right moment to spring it on everyone. Perhaps they’d already have gotten suspicious once they noticed I wasn’t diving into the wine bottle with my usual aplomb. Maybe they’d have noticed the soft and resonant glow of my complexion, how thick and lush my mane or the stolen blissful glances of sweet satisfaction with Snakes. Maybe during a lull in the conversation (though unlikely with my family as free flowing as booze is around the holiday). Maybe Snakes would propose a toast before dinner.  Maybe I would quietly pull my parents aside for a perfectly tender holiday moment.  The latest milestone was Christmas. And the only thing perfectly tender will be my dad’s smoked salmon.  I foolishly thought this good news might help to soften the blow when I meet all of the other unplanned or otherwise babies that were born this year into my family.  Unplanned. I can’t even wrap my head around that. (I am such a hag. I hate it that I have anything but unbridled joy when welcoming a new little life force into the world. Crazy, angry lady.  The one who puts dog hair in her Halloween candies.)

So today’s a little tough. In the grand scheme of things, I realize that things can ALWAYS be worse. I feel like a jack-ass posting something like this after steeping so recently in that season of gratitude.

Which brings me to the only thing I may be capable of today. Baking a pie. I need golden flaky pastry crust and warm juicy fruit. I need the smell of that buttery pie to warm my house and me from the inside out. I need the bright tang of the berries to jolt me back to myself. I need a generous dollop of freshly whipped cream to remind me that everything is gonna work out just fine.

michigan dutch meets pennsylvania dutch

Just back from a fortifying Thanksgiving weekend with Snakes’ family in Bethlehem, PA.   There was a lively group of around 20 relatives and friends (ranging in ages from 90+ to 5), a nice crackling fire in the living room fireplace and enough food, drink and good cheer for seconds and thirds. There was also a fair amount of speculation about what shape our holidays may take next year.  It’s becoming harder and harder to not view everything through that lens.

Wandering through the boutiques on Main Street the next day,  I admired the buildings gussied up in their twinkling holiday finery.  All of the buildings and many of the homes in Bethlehem adorn their windows with a single candle light.  It’s so elegant. I remember when I was a kid, my mom, sister and I would do the same to our big drafty old farmhouse on the hill. Once we’d finished scouting all the necessary extension cords, untangling the lights and assigning each to a window, the 3 of us would pack into the front seat of the car and drive slowly up and down our dirt road admiring our work from all of the possible vantage points. Wow! Could that really be our house?? So warm and welcoming and impressive.

I imagine that trying to preserve some of these traditions presents a major challenge in the foreign service. I’m hoping some of this can be accomplished through food. Every year my MIL makes a stuffing for Thanksgiving dinner from a Pennsylvania Dutch recipe.  The first of their Thanksgivings I attended, she tossed me the recipe when I walked into her kitchen asking if there was anything I could do to help.

I expected to be drying dishes or chopping onions. When something so serious as stuffing was entrusted to me I was honored and terrified at once. It must’ve turned out well because I’ve been helping make it each year since. Heavy on the carbs and butter, it’s a glorious comfort food that I look forward to every year. I hope they have all of these ingredients in Luanda!