Fifty-five

Years and days

Dear Readers,

I hope the new year still feels somewhat new. I know that is a tall order as COVID rages, we faced the anniversary of the insurrection, and climate disasters abound. Adding in the puzzle of time is sigh-inducing.

Time – what a strange tax to count! For the most part, my brain believes I’m still a teenager, but the approach of my 55th birthday, like that of my 30th measures differently. January 26th is the date, and in advance of it, I decided to do some fun counting.

The setting sun shines a last bright glance on a row of nearly bare trees and a carpet of leaves.

For the next 55 days, I will be posting thoughts on bread and housing. The myths surrounding these two facts of life have intrigued me for a while, and I am working toward a book examining these ideas and realities. I’m excited to draw my attention, and hopefully yours, to my curiosities. I predict showing you tidbits from my cooking pamphlets, book reports, and reflections on my walks through Troy, New York. The daily posts will be on social media, and each week I’ll be recapping them in this letter.

This was inspired by participating in a project called The Twelve Grains of Christmas Community Cookbook — which was inspired by Ellie’s Christmas cookie explorations. For a dozen days, a group of women applied cookie traditions to a single grain. I used rice flour to configure a pumpkin-walnut bar cookie for gifts.

Sticky cookie bars on a blue and white plate, in front of a twinkling Christmas tree. A cornhusk ornament of a woman holding a child is blurry but very much gracing the sweets.

Baking for this project reminded me of the many conversations we have in the kitchen. We are baking with cookbooks and friends, listening to ingredients and to the voices that find their way into the hearts of our heads. Although my hands are very singularly in my dough, there is quite a crowd gathered when I bake.

I named my cookie for my grandmother Eva Zaleska Sweeney, in honor of the cookies I didn’t get to bake with her. She and my grandfather were hit by an ambulance one Saturday in July, 1976, right after America saluted the 200th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence. My family, especially my mom, really rued the independence that accident declared. This may well be something I write more about in my daily musings over the next while. In researching the book, I’ve been reading up on attitudes toward the Bicentennial from the 1960s forward. I want to know about the times I have lived through, and guess at how they’ve made me who I am.  

 I look forward to bringing you into my days and observations, and thank you as ever for joining me.

Yours, Amy