Tuesday night I went to bed at 9:30. I woke up at 2:30—my husband’s side of the bed was empty. I found him in the kitchen, sitting in the computer’s blue glow. He looked like someone had died.

Back in bed, I forced my body to hold still, my eyes to shut, willing sleep to come. But my hands kept clenching and my racing, totally irrational thoughts (at least I hoped they were irrational, oh, pleasepleaseplease) ricocheted wildly, completely out of control, until, shortly before five, I gave up.

As I showered, I racked my brains, trying to reorient myself. What to say to the children? They’d be crushed. How to give perspective? How to speak with love, kindness, and respect when I felt none of those things? I needed a level head, my two feet firmly planted. But on what?

The water poured over my face and then it came to me: kindness. Yes, that was it. I’d tell my children to be kind. Respectful, too. I would not—must not—be ugly about this. There would be no name calling, no bad mouthing, no pointing fingers.

Downstairs, I lit a candle. When my older son walked into the room and asked quietly, anxiously, “Is it as bad…,” I put my head down and cried. And then, a little later, processing it with the rest of the children, I broke again. One child stomped to the bathroom and slammed the door. The other two sat hunched—one in the swivel chair, the other on the sofa—their faces twisted.

As my son headed out the door to his 12-hour shift, I said, Be extra kind to people today.

I know, he said. I will.

What was there to do? Something, anything.

I fetched three butternuts from the back hall and sliced them, laying the pieces on a tray before slipping them into the oven to roast. I mixed up a batch of granola. That afternoon I bought groceries, and then dropped the kids at the library before meeting with my writing group. For two blessed hours we rearranged words, ate chocolate, laughed.

Such balm, that laughter.

My thoughts have been all over the map. Sometimes I think, Oh what’s the big deal. Life happens, we’ll move on, some good might come of this, blah, blah, blah. Other times I get flashes of anxiety so searing my gut heaves.

On social media and the radio, the voices blare. There is so much anger and hurt. Listening for too long, I feel I’ll drown.

So instead, I hunker down, focus on the tangible, the ordinary. I go on runs. I visit with the college students who crash at my house. I make my kids rehearse their choir music. I speak at a fundraiser dinner for an organization that partners with at-risk and homeless mothers. I see a play. I help sweep up the glass from a dropped pan. I wash the horrifically dusty stairs. I fold laundry. I tease my husband. I make supper.

For now, that’s all.

For now, that’s enough.
xo

This same time, years previous: the quotidian (11.9.15), George Washington Carver sweet potato soup with peanut butter and ginger, for the time change, the quotidian (11.10.14), maple roasted squash, pumpkin cranberry cheesecake muffins, mashed sweet potatoes, and my apple line-up.

This same time, years previous: musings from the coffee shop, awkward, “How are you different now?”, bierocks, let me sum up, laid flat, crispy cinnamon cookies, and brown sugar icing.

Guess what, folks! Just as I predicted, I’m up to my ears in German baking. It’s been a long time since I allowed myself to wallow in a new cookbook, studying a new cuisine.

I’m only in the beginning stages, which is code for: I’m wobbly. I’ve been paying particular attention to the yeasted cakes (I’m a sucker for everyday pastries), and while the cakes are simple enough that I’m pretty sure I’m doing them correctly, they’re different enough that I’m not exactly sure how I feel about them. This is a good thing (my middle name is Pollyanna): it means I’m stepping outside my box. Thrills!

It’s quite the process, determining if a recipe works. Do we prefer it fresh, or is it better the second day? Do my kids turn up their noses, or do they request the item for a snack? Does my husband voluntarily take it in his lunch? If I set the cake stand on the table, will people help themselves to cake for breakfast? When the cake plate is empty, does anyone ask if there is more hidden in a cupboard somewhere?

I didn’t need any of those tests for the cinnamon pretzels. Right off, they were an enormous hit.

The pretzels taste like a cross between animal crackers, graham crackers, biscotti, and peppernuts. They are mild, faintly sweet, and crunchy. They’d made a perfect snack for toddlers, but—warning—adults are incapable of keeping their hands off them.

It  might seem tedious, having to shape all those pretzels, but it was actually quite low-key and mess-free. While my younger two kids practiced carols for their Christmas concert, I stood at the table-that-is-not-my-new-island (waiting, Honey, WAITING) and rolled and twisted the dough into adorable little pretzels.

For one tray, we sprinkled pearl sugar on the egg-washed pretzels to look like salt. It wasn’t Luisa’s suggestion, so my little embellishment made me feel all kitchen goddess-y, in a Germanic sort of way.

Cinnamon Pretzels
Adapted from Classic German Baking by Luisa Weiss.

Even though the pretzels’ utter simplicity is what makes them so beguiling, I can’t help but wonder how they’d taste with a hit of ginger, or maybe cardamom. Fabulous, probably. Also, I think whole wheat pastry flour would work well here, especially if making these a snack for little ones.

9 tablespoons, plus 1 teaspoon, butter
1¼ cups sugar
1 tablespoon cinnamon
¼ teaspoon salt
4 eggs, divided
4 cups flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
pearl sugar, optional

Brown the butter over medium heat. Pour the melted butter into a mixing bowl and beat in the sugar, cinnamon, and salt. Beat in three of the eggs, one at a time. Add the flour and baking powder and mix well. The dough will feel like play-dough. Refrigerate for at least an hour.

Break off ½ ounce pieces of dough. (Yes, we used a scale—dough-ball size was my younger son’s job.) Roll the dough into 10-inch long strips. (Yes, we used a ruler… in the beginning.) There is no need to use much, if any, flour. Shape the strips into pretzels (you’ll figure it out—just do it), and place the pretzels on a parchment paper-lined cookie sheet. The pretzels hardly rise, so there’s no need to leave much space between pretzels.

Beat the fourth egg until creamy and brush over the pretzels. Really get a nice coating—the egg gives the pretzels a delightful glossy varnish. Sprinkle with pearl sugar, if you like. (Recommend! Recommend!)

Bake the pretzels at 350 degrees for 10-12 minutes, or until the pretzels are golden brown. Out of the oven, let the pretzels sit on the hot trays for another couple minutes to continue crisping before transferring them to a cooling rack. Store cooled pretzels in a pretty glass jar on the counter.

This same time, years previous: 2015 garden stats and notes, meatloaf, the quotidian (11.4.13), chatty time, posing for candy, cheesy broccoli potato soup, why I’m spacey, sweet and sour lentils, and Greek yogurt.