by Debra on May 2, 2013

[grooveshark width=”250″ height=”40″ id=”37781667″ style=”metal”]
Musical pairing – “Imagine” by John Lennon

NOTE: I meant to post this last week but in the midst of attending Big Traveling Potluck in Los Angeles, I completely forgot; the cake is still fabulous – I really hope you’ll bake one!

Sometimes one just needs cake or rather one needs to be in the kitchen baking anything – cookies, pie, tarts or in this case, a cake. I know that I’m with the rest of the world when I say last week was an incredibly stressful one.


I remember flipping open my laptop and seeing the words, ‘bombing at the Boston Marathon’ and I felt the hairs stand on the back of my neck and my arms – I read the words to The Professor who was home from campus that day and we both watched in stunned silence as we tried to absorb the news and make sense of what we were seeing.

And then we realize how big our world has become via social media – Facebook, twitter, the internet – all streaming news in real time as it was happening – images, interviews, speculation. Reports of catastrophic injuries, confirmation of the death of an 8-year-old boy – and the worry of friends I knew were running the race – were they safe, were they injured? Please, oh please, check into twitter, Facebook – anything to let us you’re ok, that your families were safe and ok.


The following days were a blur; life’ marches on as we try to continue the ‘normalcy’ of our day-to-day lives when really, we’re all screaming – ‘Just stop; for a moment, a day, two days, just stop; I need to get my bearings, to catch my breath, to process all that has happened.’ 

Our kitchen becomes the only safe-haven – or at least my kitchen is my safe haven in times of confusion and sorrow. The familiar rhythm of reaching for a canister of flour and sugar and measuring them into a bowl, scooping a couple of teaspoons of baking soda from a yellow box and pouring vanilla-scented paste into an oblong-shaped spoon are a few of the movements my body does that seems to make any sense. Mashing bananas, toasting pecans and releasing the sweet smell of crushed pineapple from its metal tin somehow seem appropriate. These events shake me at my core – and there have been far too many of these events in the last couple of years; I don’t feel safe. I want to run. I want to move out of the country. And I know running, moving won’t change anything.


So I bake – at the moment it’s the only thing that makes sense.