Mixed Emotions—A Christmas Story
When I'm in the kitchen, nothing else exists. There's no stress, no deadlines, no illness, no worry. I commune with pot and spoon and liken my seasoning and stirring to an indoor form of gardening—cheaper than therapy and resulting in good things to eat. Unlike therapy, when my soul calls out in the dark hours, cooking and gardening don't keep office hours. There's an old R.E.M. song that I can't help but sing when I'm out pulling weeds by the light of the moon, "Though all the feelings that broke through that door/ Just didn't seem to be too real/ The yard is nothing but a fence, the sun just hurts my eyes/ Somewhere it must be time for penitence... Gardening at night..." Brutal cold and whipping winds made gardening impossible Friday night, so instead, I set about baking. Three runs of scones came together as amalgamations of flour, sugar, and half and half. I used my grandmother's cookie cutters to give them shape—candied ginger and cocon