A RECIPE, for Fran’s brownies, sits on my desk.
We call her Aunt Fran—though we’re not related by blood—and her brownies are the best. Fran was best friends with my mom, and growing up, we were kind of scared of her. She has this Bostonian no-nonsense tone in her voice, and took a tough approach to keeping us all in line.
I didn't understand her "meanness" growing up, but I truly appreciate her now, and we still talk from time to time. She called me "Mandy," and reassured me much later in life that she knew how hard it was to grow up with a mother like mine.
Bless them both.
I still have Aunt Fran's brownies recipe card with my mom’s writing on it, that slanted ease, as if the letters are parading off the page. They used to bake and cook all kinds of things together, spent hours in the kitchen together rolling crepes and egg rolls, mixing the ingredients for brownies and tuna noodle casseroles. They kept busy and seemed to have fun with each other, getting through life. Fran used to live down the street from us.
I’ve tried to adapt the brownie recipe in recent years—it’s too sweet, I never buy baker’s chocolate, I need to improvise—and yet, this recipe reveals its winning feature, the will to bend toward the sweetness of time.
AN IDEA came to me this morning, to write about how my friends are doing the most amazing things but they don’t toot their own horns or sing their own praises, and I sometimes wonder if I should just write about each of them, one story at a time, how they found what lights them up and went and did it, how they figured out the answer to that game we were all playing a few years ago during peak pandemic times:
“What would be your job during the apocalypse?”
"What’s the one thing you’re good at that you’d be willing to contribute to the commune in the after-times?”
And here we are—in the after times—making our offerings, quietly, with confidence and grace. The calligrapher friend, the critical response friend, the gardener friend, the massage therapist friend, the editor friend, the organizer friend, the ceremonies friend, the yoga for wellness friend, the writing workshop leader friend, the grant writer friend, all of us, saying “Here, I have this, and what do you have, and can we share?”
The world should know about these quiet geniuses. I bet you know so many amazing people, too, who we deserve to know—and our hearts would expand if we became aware of all the good they make and do in this life.
AN INVITATION came to me this morning, to go for brunch at a local spot that just opened up, with my sister and her two lovely friends, two creatives with warm hearts and sweet souls, who gather for a coffee or a fancy granola bowl or a bagel shmear, because it’s Friday, and a holiday weekend approaches, and everyone’s off work, if they still have jobs, so why not go for brunch?
I’m grateful for the invite, I’ve been trying to socialize more with friends, but I’m seriously underemployed and kind of broke when it comes to brunch. Besides, this morning I’ve been called to knead dough for another round of challah-making experiments.
So as the dough is rising in the blue and white marbled bowl, covered with a cloth featuring blue and white tiger prints, I decline the invite. I have a date with god, this morning, I tell myself, an appointment with the divine, to drop into deep time and knead my way toward a better understanding of how yeast works to come alive and bring us sustenance, our daily bread.
Pray for me, that the dough rises, but not too high, that the bread keeps its shape this time, that the center is sweet.
Shabbat shalom, and happy Fourth, to all grappling with the meaning of any of it, the boom and shock of it all.
We call her Aunt Fran—though we’re not related by blood—and her brownies are the best. Fran was best friends with my mom, and growing up, we were kind of scared of her. She has this Bostonian no-nonsense tone in her voice, and took a tough approach to keeping us all in line.
I didn't understand her "meanness" growing up, but I truly appreciate her now, and we still talk from time to time. She called me "Mandy," and reassured me much later in life that she knew how hard it was to grow up with a mother like mine.
Bless them both.
I still have Aunt Fran's brownies recipe card with my mom’s writing on it, that slanted ease, as if the letters are parading off the page. They used to bake and cook all kinds of things together, spent hours in the kitchen together rolling crepes and egg rolls, mixing the ingredients for brownies and tuna noodle casseroles. They kept busy and seemed to have fun with each other, getting through life. Fran used to live down the street from us.
I’ve tried to adapt the brownie recipe in recent years—it’s too sweet, I never buy baker’s chocolate, I need to improvise—and yet, this recipe reveals its winning feature, the will to bend toward the sweetness of time.
AN IDEA came to me this morning, to write about how my friends are doing the most amazing things but they don’t toot their own horns or sing their own praises, and I sometimes wonder if I should just write about each of them, one story at a time, how they found what lights them up and went and did it, how they figured out the answer to that game we were all playing a few years ago during peak pandemic times:
“What would be your job during the apocalypse?”
"What’s the one thing you’re good at that you’d be willing to contribute to the commune in the after-times?”
And here we are—in the after times—making our offerings, quietly, with confidence and grace. The calligrapher friend, the critical response friend, the gardener friend, the massage therapist friend, the editor friend, the organizer friend, the ceremonies friend, the yoga for wellness friend, the writing workshop leader friend, the grant writer friend, all of us, saying “Here, I have this, and what do you have, and can we share?”
The world should know about these quiet geniuses. I bet you know so many amazing people, too, who we deserve to know—and our hearts would expand if we became aware of all the good they make and do in this life.
AN INVITATION came to me this morning, to go for brunch at a local spot that just opened up, with my sister and her two lovely friends, two creatives with warm hearts and sweet souls, who gather for a coffee or a fancy granola bowl or a bagel shmear, because it’s Friday, and a holiday weekend approaches, and everyone’s off work, if they still have jobs, so why not go for brunch?
I’m grateful for the invite, I’ve been trying to socialize more with friends, but I’m seriously underemployed and kind of broke when it comes to brunch. Besides, this morning I’ve been called to knead dough for another round of challah-making experiments.
So as the dough is rising in the blue and white marbled bowl, covered with a cloth featuring blue and white tiger prints, I decline the invite. I have a date with god, this morning, I tell myself, an appointment with the divine, to drop into deep time and knead my way toward a better understanding of how yeast works to come alive and bring us sustenance, our daily bread.
Pray for me, that the dough rises, but not too high, that the bread keeps its shape this time, that the center is sweet.
Shabbat shalom, and happy Fourth, to all grappling with the meaning of any of it, the boom and shock of it all.
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