I remember that first gray kitchen in New York, no windows, Soviet bunker exterior, baking something in December. One bakes in December to build something, build it and incorporate it into your body, sloppy batter to puffy cake, a chemical miracle, incorporated later in and around your midsection. A little practice run, a little test, yes I am capable, yes I can frost this cake, yes, I can live this life.
The song came on the radio and I was stopped, mid-stir or whisk or oven-knob-crank. Like it had been translated from the Greek. Like I had turned up my hearing aid, instead of the stove.
Yesterday, at the store, searching for someone to talk to about mini-quiche, there she was. Joni Mitchell, who at this point has probably converted to Judaism or lives so far north in Canada that there are only wild elk to do any real damage to a fir tree. Her spacious cottage located directly on a frozen river, ice skating available at any point during the year, barring any ill effects of global climate change on permafrost.
I am still 25, though, and urban, and identify exponentially with this rural longing. I am selfish and I am sad and I can only hope that next year or maybe the year after, I will make a lot of money and I will quit this crazy scene. Though, mostly the make a lot of money. Oh who am I kidding? Milk and toast and honey... a song outside my window, it came ringing up like Christmas bells and rapping up like pipes and drums, oh, won't you stay, we'll put on the day, and we'll wear it 'till the night comes? Until next year, anyway.
Originally published over at A Thing of Today.
