I escaped to my suburban hideaway last night
because my house was being invaded
by testosterone. Yesterday was Spencer's 7.7.7 birthday
and I made him Golden Butter Cupcakes
with White Mountain Frosting dusted with fairy sugar
and red/green/blue/yellow sprinkles.
And I made cinnamon rolls which ended up being
pecan rolls because the only cinnamon in the house
was in stick-form and who wants to grind cinnamon
on Saturday morning? Not me. Pecan/vanilla rolls
with a sugar glaze. Oh lovely risen sweet bread!
I could've baked all day (to the tune of I Could Have
Danced All Night). Recalling the pure pleasure of early
mornings at Two Tartes, alone, the radio cranked up,
the ovens blasting. Strawberry white chocolate scones.
(These I called Berry Whites.) Peach almond scones.
Cranberry orange walnut scones. The windows misting up
with scone-fog. And then the cookies....chakra chip,
bigfoot (oats, apricots, cherries, walnuts), toffee brownies.
Snickerdoodles on demand. Cupcake-of-the-day.
The loyal customers more family than anything,
every day with their news, jokes, heartbreaks.
Always men brought me gifts: a poem written
on a paper napkin, CD's, a single satsuma,
plum jam, pizelles (this I found hilarious
because I made cookies all day), one maple leaf,
boxes of backyard-orchard apples. Once Jerry Chin
went fishing at Rattlesnake Lake and brought me back
four perfect trout, packed in ice. Chris Vondrasek
brought me a photo of two perfect chairs he designed
and built for the Curator of Decorative Arts at the
Seattle Art Museum. Made from French pear wood.
Bob (can't remember his last name) brought me lunch
on occasion -- roasted onion pizza, a Thai salad. Homemade.
Someone brought me homemade chili once
and I threw it away.