We stand at the kitchen counter,
my young daughter and I, mixing together
the milk, flour, sugar, and eggs by hand,
too closely, and are careful not to over-mix.
This recipe, handed down from her great-aunts,
and much further back than that,
is more feel than science, I am reminded,
not so different than writing a poem or falling in love.
In other words, it's always the first time.
When in doubt, add more butter,
always remember who you are cooking for,
and don't be afraid of small mistakes.
We can never resist peeking into the secret realm
of the oven as it browns and bubbles up
over the rim of the pan, as if from the earth
itself, lovely in its imperfection. Moments later,
lingonberries and maple syrup dripping
from our lips, we agree that this must be the best
batch yet -- until the next, and the next.
This is sustenance, after all, but also
a kind of song, a calling back to a world
long past, before setting out into the bright
expanse of this new day.
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