I wish I could have captured this morning on my camera. I wish you all could have seen the steam from my cup, how the light danced from grey to blue over the dishes left from last night. How a tree scratched the window and it sounds like a moth tapping to be let in, soft and gentle, a whispering Catherine in this Wuthering mid-century. How the first bite of toast left crumbs on my shirt and how the cream swirled and danced in my cup just long enough for me to notice.
Mornings like this happen all the time, I just am too busy to notice during the week. Sundays come and I woke up at seven to start baking today. I'm heading to the park later. I'm taking a break from everything today. But if you're still enjoying your coffee, if you're still finishing your toast, then here are some pieces I've written this week you might enjoy. Keep your glasses on, stretch and yawn all day long. These are the best moments of Sunday.
Fig+Bleu Elsewhere
"My Father, the Donut Lover" + Recipe for Powdered Donuts on Snacks Quarterly
It has never been that I never wanted to know my father; I just always found better things to do with my time. He’s quiet, worrisome. He’s well-meaning, but there’s a negativity to his comments that come from never realizing how deep emotions can go. He cried when I graduated high school and when I moved to California, every conversation in between was over the phone. In the back of my mind, he hasn’t aged a day. In the back of my mind, I see my dad in a sweatshirt and sleeping shorts, watching a sitcom on TBS, the couch cushions forming to his body. In the back of my mind, I know that image is a pillar of my childhood. An obelisk, etched with laugh lines and cherry moles. A corn-fed Atlas who holds up the world in his faded flannel shirt.
"An Ode to Gathering" + Recipe for Cheddar-Apple Butter Galettes on The Baking Society
It wasn’t until later that I realized how vital this gathering around food was, how it existed in my genes as well as my sense memory. How it situated itself on my palette and into the corners of my nerve-endings, always on the outliers of my synapses. I gravitate to those hearty meals; my mom adds a can of Coca-Cola to her ham. I like donuts made from pinched-off biscuit dough and my lemonade so sweet it hurts your teeth. A piece of bread dipped in apple butter is the only thing you need with coffee. These were the years I remember most before bed, seasons of harvest and celebrations of life. How they shaped my worldview, my love of food, and the bonds that tie us together are enriched most in egg, sugar, and flour.