The sensation of snowflakes alighting on my eyelashes almost makes the cold weather worthwhile.
Batter lapping into the flour-dusted pan. Acrid cinnamon and perfume of cloves, and nutmeg and allspice somewhere in between. The oven warms the kitchen as I wait for the gluten knitting into strands and clots, the caramelizing pumpkin, the swelling gas bubbles stretching the toroid along its axis. The premature crust bursts slowly, striae becoming tears and splits. The sharp, direct odors of the batter blend into a continuous spectrum of promises. Knife comes out clean.
And now, much later, I'm making a late-night snack -- grilled cheese on pumpernickel. So many reminders of her.
posted on Saturday, December 04, 2010
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