There is nothing super special about my piecrust, except that it is the only food I truly derive joy from producing.
“Will you bake more this fall?” Chad asks me a month ago. “It feels so much like, you know, fall when you do.”
He has to say this because very few leaves change around here.
Apron on, I pull my hair into a tie and wash my hands with soap to begin. I find the flour and the sugar. I find the rolling pin.
Cutting in the butter, the shortening and rolling out the circle is Sabbath to me.
It is quiet in my head when I bake. It is soul-giving when I do. The oven warms the kitchen and the children seem to play with more peace when there is something sweet to be expected for Sunday supper.
So I roll. I bake. And I breathe.
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