Hisashiburi. (It’s been a long time.) I’m writing again. I can barely believe it myself. But give anything a few months and trust that it will turn itself from brown to naked, to budding all over, even when the frost is still on its roots.
Before I knew anything about doctors and lawyers and after looking deep up into the stars to see there existed a blackness punched full of light that extended reality and also challenged it, I told my preschool teacher that I wanted to be a chef. Food was full of noble things I thought.
Sure, now I know, food can’t cram a gavel between justice and injustice — but it sure can make any man sigh from his belly button. An onion if it’s peeled sharp enough and sliced ripe enough could even make him cry… and aren’t tears what rain is made from? The same stuff that nourished your roots when you thought you just couldn’t?
There’s something comfortable in the symmetry of rolling and slicing these sticky buns, then stuffing them like matching coiled snail shells snugly in a pan barely big enough to contain their excitement to ooze cinnamon sap all over the oven shelf. Even then you don’t know how well they’ve hidden their best parts until you’ve flipped them over and behold, a crown of sticky crumbled pecans.