On this first official Back-From-The-Holidays for school and lots of working folks, I’m just wandering a bit in all the pictures which were snapped a year ago---the bright moments around the table, the twinkles of the tree, the hush of the snow as it encompassed us all in such soft captivity this time last year.
From the little thumbprint picture in last Winter’s album-to-choose-from, I couldn’t for the life of me decide quite WHAT this was---an odd splash of golden yellow on a sea of whites---not quite your usual photo of anything, animal, vegetable or mineral. And it was simply the beginnings of CORNBREAD---the drys softly cuddling the puddle of buttermilk, with the eggs gently dropped in one-at-a-time.
Only this time, there were two yolks in one of those splendid Jumbo eggs---a twinning of might-be that missed the hatch to come down the line in that neatly-dozened white box to my kitchen, for the New Year’s bread to go with the Black-Eyed Peas and Collards of the new 2014. A Lucky Egg for the new beginning---both fresh and shining and filled with promise. The luck was beaten into that bowl of batter, poured into the butter-sizzle of a black skillet older than my children, and shared on that first day of the year.
And the year WAS bright in most places, with luck or angels riding on our shoulders on several notable occasions---Sweetpea’s escape from an upside-down van in an ice-skid last Winter (“Ganjin, we went swooo and swirrrrrl and upside down and then I was looking down at MONEY ON THE CEILING!”)
And the absolute terror of June, when Chris’ health scare put us all into a dreadful hold til he could heal and have such a wonderful report in November---Thanksgiving, indeed. He’s bright and joyful as ever, having just trimmed his beard from going about resembling Santa for a couple of months, even to the unabashed wearing of that red-and-white hat, even on service calls, for the month of December. There’s just something about a man who so knows who he IS that he can wear and do a lot of things which mere mortals would decline---and I think the sight of a fella who’s comfortable with his knees scrunched beneath a tiny tea table, sipping p’tend tea from wee pink cups, is even more romantic and appealing than any table for two with roses and champagne.
And so, for this bright New Year, I wish you all great slices of Luck Bread, filled with all the flavours which make you happy. And may all the bread you cast upon the waters come back CAKE.