I’ve had the urge to bake for about a week now. It came on suddenly and never left. If anything explains my mood these days, it’s that. And if you don’t know me, reader, let’s start with this: I don’t bake. Cooking leaves room for opinions and experiments. You can start with a basic concept and riff on it endlessly, pull out a hundred more ideas. It allows for improv where baking demands structure. Rule-following is usually the last thing I’m in the mood for. Yet.
I may not be alone in craving some structure these days. These past few weeks have felt like an unraveling of the sure things, the things I’ve chased after (my career, our life here in New York), the things I didn’t know I relied on (the nine-block walk to get bagels every Sunday morning, the screeching cadence of old subway wheels on even older tracks: the sound of going somewhere). I was caught up in the business of building, of adding and wanting more. Now it feels as if the world is telling me (and so many others, I realize) that it was too much.
I’m guilty of defining myself by what I can get done in a day (week, year, decade). I work hard, write, read, dance—all verbs. It’s not what you’re supposed to say, but I admit that I’m disoriented without the schedule, the to-do list. I was getting used to the blurred boundaries that motherhood invites, between my physical self and the baby, between old priorities and new, between mornings and nights when sleep is scarce. We were finding our groove. Now we’re adjusting again.
I’m trying to put one foot in front of the other, until I reach the end of my very small, railroad-style apartment. Then I have to turn around and walk the other way. That’s my attempt at quarantine humor. (Yes, it’s come to this. I’m truly sorry.) The truth is, I wish I could find more lightness in all of this. I appreciate the productivity pushers, the ones calling us to color code our sock drawers and learn German. But, without our nanny (who is home safe in her own quarantine), I’m navigating my days hour by hour: caring for the baby, working when I can, trying to set aside time to cook and do things that promote sanity.
If you’re learning German right now, reader, I applaud you. But I will also not blame you if, like me, you find yourself having to toss out expectations. I’m trying to forgive myself when I find my weekdays blurring into weekends and mornings turning into late afternoons before I’ve accomplished anything at all, the yellow spring sun getting low in the sky before I can remember watching it rise. Likewise, I applaud you if you’re eating a super clean, immunity-boosting diet. What feels right and nourishing for me right now is the double batch of chili and buttermilk cornbread we made last night. Big, comforting meals that simmer over a hot stove all day.
It also feels nourishing, for once, to bake, to follow a set of rules closely and reverently so that the end result is just the way the recipe promised. My head is still spinning (as I’m sure yours is). But, for now, I have recipes for Alison Roman’s blackberry cornmeal cake and Marion Cunningham’s buttermilk scones waiting for me. And that will have to be enough.
