I
finished packing up my kitchen days ago. My cake pans were in boxes sometime
early last week. But as I walked through the underground loading dock on my way
back to the office, I was distinctly aware of the finality of what I’d just
done. I would never, from that moment on, be able to bake for anyone out of
that kitchen.
Maybe
it doesn’t seem like a very big deal, but I’ve gotten a lot of mileage out of a
certain identity, namely being “the person who bakes a lot”. I made a tiered
wedding cake for some friends (because their original plan of buying a Costco
sheet cake sounded fairly sad), princess cake for a Swedish friend feeling
homesick, banoffee pie for my Irish friend who hadn’t tasted it since moving to
the States over a decade before, pecan pie for another friend’s Thanksgiving
dinner, maple bourbon pecan peach pie for another friend’s birthday, Canal
House chocolate chip cookies for a dozen odd events, buttermilk breakfast cake
for Saturday morning visitors, orange olive oil cake for backyard dinners, and
so many cakes, breads, pies, cookies, tarts, tortes, and more for so many
gatherings, celebrations, holidays, birthdays, and births past counting.
Packing
has been hard. I’ve shed a lot of tears. This apartment, this kitchen, have
meant a lot to me over the last four years. But as I walked away from city
hall, realizing that my last baking project in that kitchen (two almond tortes)
was now irrevocably far behind me, I felt…free. I am no longer the person who bakes
a lot. I’m just myself.
This was the kitchen that launched you as a baker-chef. (I was going to put extraordinaire, but I couldn't spell it.)(I think I just did.) What wonderful smells wafted out your windows down to Second Street. It was the perfect apartment and the perfect imperfect kitchen. The fact that you did all this with NO counters, an ancient sink, and a really tired stove that always seemed like it was on the verge of blowing up, makes all your masterpieces even more amazing. I have cried about you leaving this place-this town across the bridge, this wonderful building (before they painted it) and this kitchen. Your hospitality is much missed, but on to great things, culinary and otherwise.
ReplyDeleteGeesh. I just thought I'd check your blog because you said maybe you'd post something tonight, and I read this again and cried again. I miss everything about my old life at the beach, but especially miss having you on the other side of the bridge. Oh, well, we all moved on and you aren't even there anymore, but I feel like there are ghosts of some kind of us going back and forth in an old CR-V, checking on the progress of the new bridge and discussing the deepest of things. Merry Christmas-I'm so glad you're home.
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