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The paper is covered in tiny text. In it, Mariah’s eyes swim, darting in between paragraphs, searching for words that she will type into her computer and wait for the computer to spit an answer back. She finds them, input, output, and then she swims again.
Mariah then pulls a wool sweater over her bare chest, her breasts nudging up against the bristly fiber. She takes it off. Puts on a white tank that’s still ribbed with the memory of a hand that traced its outline on her skin. He had left. She had sat on a yellow stool. Was it really that simple? Two years of living together and now he’s gone?
The phone rings in the kitchen twice, the metallic sound of bits and bytes banging up against pale walls and piles of unfinished work.
Mariah thinks of herself as an artist. She writes with a blue pen the word inspiration on the inside of her wrist, a day-long marking, a reminder of her larger purpose. She tells herself that at least the office will be busy today—coworkers, shuffling from one desk to the next, transferring documents that need to be seen, approved, signed, sorted, piled away. And that one girl, the one with the streak of gold in her left eye, she’ll bring in sandwiches today from the Jewish deli across the street and how can pastrami and rye bread not make this more bearable? Mariah outlines the word inspiration again, pressing hard enough to turn her skin pink, then red.
Near the banana bowl are sketches of a woman’s breast, just her left-breast—the breast that women hate because it is too small or too large, misshapen. Enough, Mariah thinks and gathers them, hole tacks now in the wall, a pile of breasts, and she places them on the yellow stool. It is time for everyone to stop asking—which one is you mother’s?
She opens her pantry to pull out a jar of blackberry jam, canned on the coast of Maine, a gift from her sister who still makes visits out to see their family. Guilt extract stirred in at no additional cost. The peanut butter sits next to a loaf of bread, the ridged lid dirty with dried spread. She takes out a knife and runs the creamy butter over the crumbling surface of bread, pulling out another scoop to cover the crumbs. And then she swipes the jam to cover it all, to soak through the bread and dye it purple, to sweeten any saltiness, to drip out of the sides when she takes her first full bite.
The paper is covered in tiny text. In it, Mariah’s eyes swim, darting in between paragraphs, searching for words that she will type into her computer and wait for the computer to spit an answer back. She finds them, input, output, and then she swims again.
Mariah then pulls a wool sweater over her bare chest, her breasts nudging up against the bristly fiber. She takes it off. Puts on a white tank that’s still ribbed with the memory of a hand that traced its outline on her skin. He had left. She had sat on a yellow stool. Was it really that simple? Two years of living together and now he’s gone?
The phone rings in the kitchen twice, the metallic sound of bits and bytes banging up against pale walls and piles of unfinished work.
Mariah thinks of herself as an artist. She writes with a blue pen the word inspiration on the inside of her wrist, a day-long marking, a reminder of her larger purpose. She tells herself that at least the office will be busy today—coworkers, shuffling from one desk to the next, transferring documents that need to be seen, approved, signed, sorted, piled away. And that one girl, the one with the streak of gold in her left eye, she’ll bring in sandwiches today from the Jewish deli across the street and how can pastrami and rye bread not make this more bearable? Mariah outlines the word inspiration again, pressing hard enough to turn her skin pink, then red.
Near the banana bowl are sketches of a woman’s breast, just her left-breast—the breast that women hate because it is too small or too large, misshapen. Enough, Mariah thinks and gathers them, hole tacks now in the wall, a pile of breasts, and she places them on the yellow stool. It is time for everyone to stop asking—which one is you mother’s?
She opens her pantry to pull out a jar of blackberry jam, canned on the coast of Maine, a gift from her sister who still makes visits out to see their family. Guilt extract stirred in at no additional cost. The peanut butter sits next to a loaf of bread, the ridged lid dirty with dried spread. She takes out a knife and runs the creamy butter over the crumbling surface of bread, pulling out another scoop to cover the crumbs. And then she swipes the jam to cover it all, to soak through the bread and dye it purple, to sweeten any saltiness, to drip out of the sides when she takes her first full bite.
The middle of the week is upon us, and I think we all could do for a glass of milk and a plate of cookies. Years ago, my mom would pick Noelle and I up from school with a plate of goodies waiting in the backseat of her car. We would have apples and peanut butter, cinnamon toast with butter and sugar, and occasionally a cookie or a brownie, wrapped in a paper towel to prevent too many crumbs.
Driving away from our elementary school, I would look out the window at all the other children still waiting for a carpool, a bus, or a parent. As I bit down into a soft and chewy cookie, I couldn't help thinking that I was the luckiest girl in the world.
Now, I drive myself to and from school (and believe me, it is a much longer drive). I don't have the company of my mom or my sister, but I do have NPR, a new CD by Frontier Ruckus, and occasionally, if I'm lucky, a cookie to get me from school to home.
These cookies are made with melted as opposed to soft butter. They are moist, spicy and incredibly chewy. I took fresh figs and laid them on top of each rounded ball, but they would be equally as satisfying on their own. The cookie dough is easy to throw together and to work with. I found these gems to be the best cookies I've made this year. I hope that you take the time this week to treat yourself in some small way...be it a cookie, a long walk, or time with your friends and family.
Driving away from our elementary school, I would look out the window at all the other children still waiting for a carpool, a bus, or a parent. As I bit down into a soft and chewy cookie, I couldn't help thinking that I was the luckiest girl in the world.
Now, I drive myself to and from school (and believe me, it is a much longer drive). I don't have the company of my mom or my sister, but I do have NPR, a new CD by Frontier Ruckus, and occasionally, if I'm lucky, a cookie to get me from school to home.
These cookies are made with melted as opposed to soft butter. They are moist, spicy and incredibly chewy. I took fresh figs and laid them on top of each rounded ball, but they would be equally as satisfying on their own. The cookie dough is easy to throw together and to work with. I found these gems to be the best cookies I've made this year. I hope that you take the time this week to treat yourself in some small way...be it a cookie, a long walk, or time with your friends and family.
Soft Spiced Honey Cookies
4 cups sifted all-purpose flour
3/4 teaspoon salt
1 tsp baking soda
1 tsp baking powder
2 tsp ground cinnamon
2 tsp ground ginger
1/2 tsp ground cloves
1 cup organic butter, softened
1-1/4 cups strained honey
1/4 cup organic sugar
1 egg
Fresh figs, cut into bite-sized pieces
1. In a medium bowl, sift together the flour, salt, soda, powder and spices. Stir until fully incoporated.
2. Melt your butter over low heat in a medium saucepan. Once melted, stir in honey and sugar until fully dissolved. Remove from heat and allow to cool for ten to 15 minutes in the refrigerator.
3. Meanwhile, preheat your oven to 350 degrees. Once honey and butter mixture is no longer hot, beat in your egg. Pour your liquid ingredients into your dry ingredients and mix with a large wooden spoon until well combined.
4. Roll dough into 1 1/2 inch balls. Place two inches apart on a non-stick or parchment lined baking sheet. If so desired, press dried fruit or fresh figs on the surface of each ball and bake for 10-15 minutes or until lightly browned.
5. Allow to cool for a few minutes on cookie sheet before removing to a wired rack.
Always,
Monet
Anecdotes and Apple Cores
PS. If you would like....take a moment to vote for me! Thank you!
4 cups sifted all-purpose flour
3/4 teaspoon salt
1 tsp baking soda
1 tsp baking powder
2 tsp ground cinnamon
2 tsp ground ginger
1/2 tsp ground cloves
1 cup organic butter, softened
1-1/4 cups strained honey
1/4 cup organic sugar
1 egg
Fresh figs, cut into bite-sized pieces
1. In a medium bowl, sift together the flour, salt, soda, powder and spices. Stir until fully incoporated.
2. Melt your butter over low heat in a medium saucepan. Once melted, stir in honey and sugar until fully dissolved. Remove from heat and allow to cool for ten to 15 minutes in the refrigerator.
3. Meanwhile, preheat your oven to 350 degrees. Once honey and butter mixture is no longer hot, beat in your egg. Pour your liquid ingredients into your dry ingredients and mix with a large wooden spoon until well combined.
4. Roll dough into 1 1/2 inch balls. Place two inches apart on a non-stick or parchment lined baking sheet. If so desired, press dried fruit or fresh figs on the surface of each ball and bake for 10-15 minutes or until lightly browned.
5. Allow to cool for a few minutes on cookie sheet before removing to a wired rack.
Always,
Monet
Anecdotes and Apple Cores
PS. If you would like....take a moment to vote for me! Thank you!
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