You could cry or die
Or just make pies all day.
I’m making pies.
— the prophet patricia j. griffin
The smell of uncertainty is in the air.
Or maybe it’s just cookies.
When I’m under a lot of stress, Mo pushes me to the door. “Go for a run,” she says. She is always right. It’s how I deal with the world when I can’t deal with the world anymore.
For Mo, it’s making cookies.
Maybe it’s tapping into the memory of her grandmother. Or a way to feel closer to her mom and sisters who are too far away. She’s using the cookie cutters her sister had just brought down.
Or maybe it’s the simple joy of maintaining certainty over one thing in a world spiraling out of control. Mix stuff up in a bowl, flatten dough, cut out cookies, cook at 350 until brown or the world gets better. Repeat as necessary.
There are only two of us. There are 700 cookies.
We’ll likely need more.
An ancient cookbook, a wooden spoon, a beloved mixing bowl. A tiny ritual that keeps you grounded in a family tradition, a connection to people and memories and the goodness that lies somewhere in the world beneath all the fear and hate. A little angel-shaped Band-Aid for the soul.
As we head into another holiday in the bunkers, I know only two things.
■ We’re going to be OK. We have each other. And we have A Lot of Cookies. That’s really all you need.
■ I should probably go for a run.
You could cry or die, or just make cookies all day …