My husband and older son left us on Tuesday night for a few days of volunteering for Mennonite Disaster Service in West Virginia. I’m not sure what they’re doing exactly. Building something, probably.

When my husband leaves, it throws me a little. Who will wake me when I need to get up early? Who will make sure there’s a fire in the morning and load the wood stove at bed time? Who will lock the house and change the batteries in our running flashlights and pick up Melissa after work and scare away the boogieman?

I can be a little pathetic at times.

This time around though, it wasn’t really a big deal. My older daughter takes care of all the animals and empties the trashes and wakes me up in the morning if I need to get up early (though I did, eventually, figure out how to use the alarm clock myself). The younger kids haul over the firewood and hang up the laundry and bicker. All in all, the days have passed rather uneventfully.

It’s kind of nice, not cooking hardly any food (because feeding only five people is an absolute breeze) and spending the evenings lounging in front of the fire with the kids, all of us lost in our own books, or else me reading out loud to them from The Education of Little Tree. Today I dropped the kids at Barnes and Noble so I could sequester myself in Panera for a couple hours of writing (after which I treated them all to a donut at our very own, brand new Krispy Kreme), and a couple days ago I dumped them at the library while I met with one of my writing groups.

In other words, I’m coping. 

Wednesday night, though, was special. I put the kids out in the barn for the night—

Just kidding! They spent the night at my parents’ house!

—and two of my girlfriends came over. For five straight hours, we talked our hearts out. Also, we ate cheese and chocolate cake. It was lovely.

I made a baked brie. It was the same one I made for our Christmas Eve cheese feast, but I cheated and baked it in the afternoon so I could take photos. I figured my girlfriends wouldn’t mind being served reheated and already-partially-eaten cheese. (I mean, partially-eaten-from cheese. The cheese wasn’t partially eaten. That’d be gross.)

The next day, I served the leftovers to the kids and my mom for lunch and now there’s only a smidge left. Sorry, Hubby and Son. If you leave—even if it is to do good deeds—you lose.

Baked Brie with Cranberries and Walnuts
Adapted from Aimee of Simple Bites.

The proportions depend on the size of your brie. I had leftover walnuts and cranberry sauce, so either my brie was on the small side or I didn’t load it up enough.

Also, make sure to cut off the top of the brie. This time, because I just scraped the wax off, there was still a seal and the cheese didn’t bubble and ooze (sorry, bad word choice) like it was supposed to.

1 wheel of brie, about a pound
¾ cup classic cranberry sauce
2/3 cup walnuts
orange zest

Cut off the top of the brie and place the brie in an oven-safe dish, cut side up. The pan should be a good bit bigger than the cheese so it has plenty of space to melt and bubble. Bake the brie at 350 degrees for 15 minutes.

While the brie is baking, toast the walnuts in a skillet. Roughly chop and set aside.

Pile the cranberry sauce atop the hot brie and return to the oven for another 5-10 minutes, or until the brie is hot and bubbly and looks a right jolly mess—at least three times as messy as mine looks in the photos.

Top the brie with the walnuts and grate over a flurry of orange zest. Serve immediately, with crackers, pretzels, or toast rounds.

This same time, years previous: the quotidian (2.1.16), object of terror, the quotidian (2.2.15), a Wednesday list, stuck buttons and frozen pipes, itchy in my skin, how we got our house, in which we enroll our children in school, taco seasoning mix, and wheat berry salad.

You know, back when I was wondering if I should go to the Women’s March, I questioned whether it would make a difference. Would it change me?

The answer is yes. Yes. I’m still very much the same person (of course), but thanks to the march, I’m moving now.

It’s all very awkward, though.

I’m completely out of my league with this activism thing. My understanding of politics is shaky (that’s putting it nicely), and I’ve been gifted with a hefty dose of cynicism. I’m not one to jump on any bandwagons, even ones I find attractive. I’m fully aware that there is always another side of the story, that people are biased, that nothing is totally clear-cut.

So I move slowly, cautiously, like a stiff-legged teenager trying to dance for the first time, hoping against hope that she doesn’t fall flat on her face. Or, in the case of my daily phone calling, hoping I don’t unintentionally ask my senators to take the wrong action. I seek out writers and news sources that I trust. Once in a while I read a piece from the other side, or watch an interview, in an attempt to get to the source. When one of my friends posted a photo of postcards she was making, I ordered a half dozen. I’ll use them to write to my government officials, though I stuck one to the wall above my desk, a reminder to speak up already, Woman.

The kids’ interest and curiosity has sparked a bunch of conversations. I try to keep them updated on what’s going on, together watching interviews and the live newsfeeds of the protests, and explaining why I’m signing the petition to make our town a sanctuary city.

When the younger kids overhear me leaving a message for a senator (yet again because, “Due to a higher than normal call volume, we are unable to take your call at this time”), they get all giddy. What were you telling them to do this time, Mom, huh? What did you say? As though the senators have no choice but to follow my orders.

On Sunday, with less than 24 hours notice, hundreds of people gathered in downtown Harrisonburg to protest the immigration ban. After hearing reports of the chants and collective roars from DC, and listening to the protesters on the news, my kids were thrilled to yell along with everyone else: No hate! No fear! Immigrants are welcome here! My brother, a freelance reporter for our local NPR station, did a short piece on the rally. (The last quote is my favorite.)

There’s so much I don’t understand. So much to do and so little I can do. I’m in over my head. We all are, I guess, right? Already, less than two weeks in, I find myself growing weary. It’d be so much easier to shut all of this out, turn it off. And, quite frankly, I’m sure I will, from time to time.

But, for right now, I’m moving.

One babystep at a time.

ROAR.

Oh, and one more thing! Today, scrolling through an endless stream of political posts on Facebook, I landed upon this gem, a friend’s little girl’s spontaneous bedtime prayer:

Thank you for friends and family. Thank you we are the same and different. Thank you for our shapes, colors, and sounds. And please watch over little Anna as she sleeps. Amen.                                                                     

—Little Anna, age 4

This same time years previous: lemon creams, and just when you thought my life was all peaches, peanut butter and honey granola, homemade mayonnaise, rock-my-world cocoa brownies, and orange cranberry biscotti.