It's the first thing I wanted to do when we walked into this house for the summer: I wanted to bake something.
Before the 'this is where this will go' and the 'that's where that's going to be' was all figured out and final; before the flour, baking soda, and sugar were even handy; before I'd unearthed a most amazing crockery dough bowl from the cacophony in the kitchen - before all of that, I wanted more than anything to bake something.
And not for the sweet part of it, really. But more for the settling part. For the contentment-with-familiar part. For the nourishing of the hearts of my brood part. For the me-telling and the them-knowing love, without ever saying the words part.
You know?
So, we did it, first chance. Made cookies, with boys on counter, all flour-dusted white, with empty lolling eggshells, and sugar spilled, and drip-drops of vanilla smelling dark and strong and sweet; clattering pans and oven door flapping and crooked towers of cookies growing higher, higher and a bit higher still.
We creamed and stirred and mixed. We tasted tummies clear full.
We baked ourselves home.
