Writing isn’t coming easy to me these days between the general anxieties of starting a new year, the political climate, my friends meeting and losing their baby, and Kev saying goodbye to his grandma—all held within the capsule of a month. This mighty big pill is currently lodged in my mind, leaving me with crumbs of insistent thoughts that will find no other way out then out (or swallowed). So today, even if only for myself, I need to couch the weight of these thoughts inside lofty, bittersweet black cookies and get them out.
The new year. Bittersweet. Full of so much hope and so many what ifs. I wake up every January 1st with a pit in my stomach, wondering if I did enough. This phase of motherhood makes the pit extra big, because enough looks so different than it did 3.5 years ago, pre-baby. It looks so much smaller now. And then tax season starts. And my brain doesn’t work the way tax season works, so hello anxiety.
The political climate. Or maybe the friend/family/neighbor climate? Bitter. I haven’t found the sweet yet. I’m concerned by the fighting and the “you’re ignorant” hurls on Facebook. I’ve said and thought both. I’m sure you have too. But I question if any good has come from it. I hate when people make me feel stupid. I hate it. I completely disengage. And yet, I’m certain I’ve made some of the closest people to me feel that way. I’m sorry. I think there’s a third way to handle this—our differences. I haven’t landed on it yet. So in the meantime I’m holding my tongue (as best as I can), listening (as best as I can), until I settle on something a little more productive.
But if I could say one thing—maybe I’m breaking my tongue-holding rule right now—share your experiences and listen to others. It’s impossible to know, really know, life from all angles. From the stirrups of a medical table, to the tall leather chair of an executive desk, to the wallet of food stamps. We all have something to give and something receive. At least that’s what my pastor says to a sea of diverse people every Sunday—diverse from skin color, economic status, life experiences, and probably even beliefs. I’m beginning to think it takes more effort to receive than to give. Maybe there’s a pitfall in that.
My friends, Lindsay and Bjork. Bittersweet, heavy on the bitter. You can read more of their story here or here. They met and lost their sweet baby Afton within the capsule of 24 hours. How do you ever swallow that pill? We were just talking about baby boy names the week before over pizza and bibimbap bowls. About how boy names are so much harder than girl names. Light conversation, you know? And then everything turned bitter. I’m in the process of figuring out how to grieve well with people you love. I’m very good at trying to make things better. Sitting in the grief is not my natural stance. But I’m sitting, and probably doing lots of things wrong. But I’m sitting.
Kev’s grandma. Bittersweet, heavier on the sweet. She lived a full and long life into her nineties. She made lemon meringue pie from scratch and kept everyone on their toes until last Friday. Her loss is significant and sudden, but the memories of her life are sweet. As you can guess, we’ve had a lot of conversations with Hal over the last month about death. She’s teaching me heaps about it through her questions. Before we left for Afton’s funeral she asked, “Why are you going to say goodbye if he’s already gone?” The proximity of death to life is so strange and impossible. In all this bittersweet-ness, I’m left with ellipses, question marks, and a full pillbox, pills that must be swallowed. Eventually.
And that leaves us with these Bittersweet Black Cookies. What you came for. They’re one part Sarah Kieffer, fives parts Rustica, one part MilkJam, and all parts Minneapolis. I started with Sarah’s chocolate cookies from her new book, added the darkest black cocoa powder as a nod to my favorite ice cream scoop from MilkJam, and adjusted the wet to dry ratio so that they’d keep their height like Rustica’s cookies. Maybe it’s because I’m short, but I prefer a little height to my cookies. They’re dark, sweet enough, a touch crispy, and plenty soft.
If you’ve made it this far, thank you and I’m sorry. Thank you for letting me get this out. And I’m sorry that this conversation is a little more one-sided than I’d like. In a perfect world, we’d be sitting at a table over coffee, with these cookies, exchanging our experiences. Because there’s just no way you can experience it all. Speaking of experiencing, if you’re not into baking or near Minneapolis, you can order these cookies from Rustica. Just be warned, they might make you move to Minneapolis. They had that affect on us. In that case, we can just schedule that coffee date.
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