Dear—
I woke early this morning, to welcome a mason who is taking apart (and hopefully putting back together) my front stair, which is a lovely but complicated brick arrangement with a slate top that is so heavy it took three men to lift it. As you might imagine, the pounding I am just now listening to is not quite conducive to writing to you.
But this week I am trying to remember my own advice about writing with the ingredients at hand. A crumbling step, new bricks stacked in a curve waiting to be placed and mortared, strawberry plants I tried to keep from underfoot (but am not confident will survive the day’s work), and a life that feels like it has no space: these are what I have at hand.
Last night I sat right where I am sitting now, on the muted brass-colored velveteen couch, which conjures up wishes about having my own velveteen rabbit worn with love, but the couch is not all too comfortable. My older daughter wrote a poem about it, in fact, that begins “I love my couch! It’s like a wall.”
Sitting here with my younger daughter last night, on the velveteen couch, we had just listened to a draft podcast of my couch-poem daughter talking to the people at WNDYR about work and legacies and so forth. We were mildly amused that a young woman who illustrated a bedrock story of women and freedom had told the interviewers she wanted to leave the next generation with these skills: cooking and sewing. You could almost, almost hear the interviewer fall off her chair. This was not an answer anyone probably expected from a “Gen Z guest.”
I have to admit I hadn’t expected that answer either, Dear. And I also thought all the podcast listeners would suspect I had spent my days simply schooling my daughters in domesticity. How quaint, I could just hear them thinking, in a world where legacy is supposed to be about saving the world with the next big tech solution.
Outside, the pounding has tuned itself to a more fine sound of chiseling, though I’ll tell you it isn’t any less distracting, as it goes. Saving a woman’s step is no easy job. And it’s not a quiet endeavor, either.
On the wood and glass table beside me is my morning tea. A ceylon from Sri Lanka that is so strong I can’t drink it after noontime. I learned this the hard way several nights ago, as I lay awake into the wee hours, wondering what my legacy would be. I told someone recently, and maybe this will surprise you, that even though I have “tech skills” I could put to use for financial gain, I just really want to cook for the people I love and bring beautiful work to light. That is all.
Before I sat on the couch with my younger daughter last night, I had cooked an evening meal of either Lebanese or Persian or Moroccan lentils and rice (we aren’t sure, as the cookbook is a fusion of the three). I am embarking on something I’m calling Morocco in May, and food is one of the centers of the experience. The rice was actually supposed to be bulgar, but I had none on hand. And, besides, my older daughter has recently decided to try going wheat-free. The recipe called for three red onions that I later decided must have been for sweetness. I had used up my last red onion the previous night, so two shallots and a yellow onion had to stand in. Next time, if red onions are scarce, I’ll add a half teaspoon of sugar to strike a better balance. I did happen to have tamarind paste in a jar. Tamarind, I rediscovered, is smoky sour (thus the need for a balancing sweetness). Since I actually had a bit of this molasses-black substance, I used it instead of lemon, which was the alternative for a kitchen that might not have a legacy of spices and colorful ingredients from around the world.
I’ve been thinking that whenever I have traveled, there are two things I look for: beautiful buildings and beautiful food. My younger daughter looks for beautiful clothing. She has always had a fascination with designing it and has recently taken to teaching herself to sew lavish or eclectic creations using fabrics and notions she gathers from the most surprising places. Etsy is her favorite haunt. As is the old trunk up in the attic. Poshmark and Depop are a close third. One day, for a Gish challenge, she made a pair of patchwork overalls from a dress I wore years and years ago, plus pieces of old jeans, and antique lace that was my grandmother’s. My girl looks lovely in the self-fashioned outfit. It’s adorable and totally unique.
At the door, there has just been knocking. The men outside want to power up a machine they are using to cut the bricks. As I told you, fixing a woman’s step is no easy job. Mine? Even less so. The stair height, if it is to fit with the other two, requires one line of bricks to be cut in half. Who knew that brick-cutting was a thing? I did not.
My ceylon is half gone now. The rest is in need of reheating. A lone cardamom waits at the bottom of the teacup. Did you know you can use a cardamom several times over and it will still give quite the burst of flavor and fragrance to your tea? It will.
“As my legacy, I would give people communication and mediation skills,” says my younger daughter. “Empathy, too.” She and I then remember the first (and only, to date) interview she had with a woman who did not seem to think she’d be capable of handling a big crowd of rowdy kids at a local theater group. “You’re quiet and gentle. I think she underestimated you,” I say. “I think she underestimated what kids need,” my daughter returns. Then she shares a story of being with a child who told her some secret sadness on the side, at the end of a busy day at the school where she once volunteered. At some point, amidst all this talk of skills and interviews and legacy, my daughter tells me, “I loved that food tonight, Mommy.”
I loved it too. The depth and heart of it. The mix of flavors. The gentle collision of history with my unique kitchen. The way it has given my daughter something she wants to bring to this velveteen couch.
Outside, the pounding has stopped. There’s a knock at the door. Rain has begun to fall. I can see that the step is put together afresh, but now it is wrapped in plastic. So I cannot, as yet, see the total result.
And now I am thinking of you, Dear—. I don’t know what you need, but if I could, I would cook and sew it for you. If you needed me to build you a stair, I might need to learn a new trick or two. A curve of bricks, the depth of tamarind, a little velveteen, I would use whatever I could to give you space for your sadness or your joy. And remember, when you’re ready, I’ve got cardamom for you, too.
As always,
L.L.