Well, this one simply didn’t turn out is what I’ll say first.
If your home is carried by the spine of a book, if you find yourself up past midnight to devour just one last chapter, if you’ve ever left the party early because there’s a riveting tale tented on your nightstand, you’ll know what it means to encounter joy in 300 pages or less.
You make this cake when it’s been overcast for four days and you’ve pulled another sweater out of storage for the week ahead. When it’s unseasonably gray, and you’re unseasonably gray, and if the weather calls for fall, why not summon a bit of cinnamon spirit?
On a walk in the woods, it’s not uncommon to transform. Who do you want to be today? I ask.
This is the cake you bake for your kids’ uncle. The one who’s not technically blood, but definitely brother. The one who never skips the occasion to send a handwritten letter from miles away, who shows up on Christmas morning with a cardboard box bigger than your car. He who cheers on every loose tooth,
As it stands, I’m not much for honey. But you know what I am one for? Honey-whipped cream, in a cold metal bowl fresh for the whisking. Taking turns getting elbow cramps with a daughter, both faux-complaining, knowing all the well we’re better for the wait.
This is the story of a girl who was hungry.
Everything, is all. This month alone: A casket kissed. A baby lost. Hot stage lights and a Gruffalo mouse. Sprinkles on a sundae. Smoke in our hair, fevered cheeks. Buttercream licked from the whisk. Last week, a blonde six-year-old tapes paper elephant ears to a headband and tosses herself down a set of stairs. The