Hide in the kitchen when the world growls.
Turn on the oven, anticipate the warmth and the aroma of cinnamon and vanilla and brown sugar.
Be in awe of the flawless beauty of rosy-cheeked golden delicious apples fresh from the orchards of a local farm, weigh them carefully in a low-tech European scale that is over thirty years old and still works like clockwork. Stir the flour and sugar, measure out the spices, butter the jadeite baking pan, sift the powdered sugar for the icing.
Fall is still gentle, outside. The afternoon sun smiles on the trees, the green leaves commingling with the reds and the yellows.
Autumn in New York, the kind season.
The winds of evil and desperation rage in a circle around our lives, slap our faces, and sometimes the blow is dizzying.
But the kitchen is a cocoon, the music is inspiring – Michael Cavanaugh, Bobby Barzini, young Indie artists who pour velvet on your senses, sexy, slow voices, acoustic sound, the only one and true. Thus we let go of all that hurts and infuriates us – the unraveling of the world, the irrational fears and the false friends.
Make your tender apple cake (recipe); think Sunday morning, espresso, sleeping late.
And just breathe.