Blasting friend please so loudly its pulsating in my ears. I don’t know how else to cope but to listen to twenty one pilots and draw yet another drawing of Tyler Joseph and just try desperately to not cry and do what my impulses tell me to. I have nothing left to say. I am numb and hollow. I have lost so much in so little time.
It’s been a seriously intense two weeks: I saw an epically moving opera (Dog Days, featuring two completely genius friends: Fellow food blogger Molly Yeh and brilliant college classmate Lauren Worsham-Jarrow), I honored the seventh anniversary of my mother’s death, and, yesterday, I wrote my dad a long celebratory letter of awe and appreciation.
As I bore witness to my personal sadnesses, the country pulsated with its own horrors of injustice and racist terrorism. I found myself looking away, turning into myself, averting my gaze. It’s so much easier not to see the grossness of humanity dying all around us.
In the kitchen, in times of flux, I seek comfort and simplicity. This dish is great for an elegant breakfast or a simple yet satisfying dessert, capitalizing on the sweetness of fruit in the season. The caramelized fruit is perfect with salty-sweet granola, which, by the by, is an infinitely customizable recipe.
Read more about how grief takes its shape in my heart, and get the recipe for this dreamy summer dish right here.
Peggy is still
half asleep and Angie watches her stumble from the bed, sleepily knot her
nightgown at mid-thigh and fall forward into – Angie sits up to get a better
look – pushups. She is doing pushups at seven-thirty in the morning after they
got in at close to three. She flops back onto the pillows, one hand flung over
her eyes. “It’s too early for that, English.” When Peggy grunts in response,
Angie rolls over. The line of her arms
is enough to make Angie’s mouth go dry. Her cheeks start to burn, and her
stomach flip-flops, heart thudding at her throat. It chokes away any rational
thought with its pulsating beat. All Angie sees is the muscles in Peggy’s arms
as she works up and down steadily, counting under her breath.
This is hell.
She’s gone to hell for her sins and this is God’s way of paying her back.
The warmth that
blossoms at Angie’s chest travels down her fluttering stomach and starts to
warm her in the one place it should not.
She sits up again. No, this cannot happen. Not like this.