A little sunshine cake

It was very rainy today.

The kind of rainy day where no matter the precautions taken, you become drenched within seconds of venturing forth into the abyss in search of the chestnut praline latte a mere yard outside your office door.

Thankfully, I had been busy last night and someone let me loose in the supermarket (when will they ever learn? Quoth the beloved Peter, Paul and Mary tune if my parents' generation) so I ended up making not one, but three persimmon cakes.

What pray tell, is a persimmon cake? Similar to many of the most delicious conditions, it was a happy accident. The combination of a lack of utter focus typically given new recipes and the addition of a glass of wine and two bourbon gingers caused a few mistaken alterations to the recipe from the New York Times, which was oroginaly intended to produce a creation referred to as a "persimmon pudding". 

By leaving out the heavy cream and adding chopped roasted almonds (leftover from Austrian Christmas cookies), I got a spongey and chewy caramelized creation with a nutty finish.

Topped with sugared pink grapefruit wedges (leftover from the prepped bourbon and fruit mixture, left to soak until Thursdays work gathering where wine will be added for a festive sangria), it produced something so intrinsically happy I could barely stand it.

So I had to eat it, and to share it. There is a lot that a sunshine cake is allowed to say that I am unable to. 

My Christmas baking has always spoken volumes to those who were the glad recipients, including neighbors, friends, and my parents and grandparents. This year tanaka me again, and I'm sending them to my far-away brothers and mom and aunt, as well as to some people whom I owe an apology, and to some who I simply can't find the courage, or the timing just yet, to tell that I love.

Lastly, it's going to a few dear friends whom I love so much, that they're heard it and I simply have to show it.

Sunshine cake, and sparkly Christmas-love bearing cookies.

the second candle of advent

we light lights, we sing songs, we bake and break bread.




life tumbles along in the wintry months. right now it is hurtling at a break neck pace and I am doing my best to find moments of calm, peace, and quiet. I find these moments often by myself, but lately I have been allowing some dear friends to join me.


last night my roommate and I walked down the street to the boy scout stand to pick our Christmas tree. We found the largest one on the lot (tall and fat!), I named him King Edward, and we proudly carried our choice home on our shoulders. Amidst giggles, wine, cookies, and dinner, we wrapped up our beloved tree in spangles and strung lights. We tied bows on its tender branches and recalled favorite memories as we hung each ornament, most handmade by either one of us, or a family member.


i pulled out the hat box my mother gave me, and began arranging my grandmother's many colorful hats around the mantle. Then I decided to add a few of them to the tree itself, to hold my grandmother's memory aloft in its piney-rich embrace.


My father's Christmas tree growing up held the images of composers and musicians past and present, and we always held a competition for the one who had earned the top of the tree. This seems to be to have been his sweet homage to those who had held him close in his times of trial and unrest. Every picture had a story.

My mother's tree was colorful and wild; one year she added a string of chilis, another year salmon topped lights (yes, plastic impersonations of salmon over Christmas lights---I hated it, but I accepted it), and then the rest was filled with the many ornaments all of us kids had made in school. Mom's tree was full of the contents of her heart; her steadfast and at times lioness-powerful love for her five children.


My tree this year is a thanksgiving. It's a celebration of my beautiful little life, crafted in a small corner of Somerville, and of my lovely roommate and dear friend Kira. It's also a celebration of my grandmother's life and all that she was to me, and to so many of her family members and friends.

It is powerful to walk in the shoes she walked in, and to wear the tiny gloves she wore. The only things that do not fit are the hats; so they are atop my tree, King Edward, the Second.

The first candle of Advent

This week is the first week of December.

Last year, this first week of December was one of the more difficult weeks I have experienced in my two and half decades of life.

Losing loved ones, I've learned, is a process. Losing two dear people in one week is so many things; a person cannot hope to begin unraveling it for months thereafter. 

I found myself in the spring at a loss to how much grief I was still shouldering. At the end of June, I was transported to an island of tolling church bells, morning walks, mysterious breezes and unrivaled fresh dates from Israel. It was the first time since December that I allowed myself to taste both sorrow and joy in their fullest. For months I had been to afraid to go anywhere near the pain I had hidden far far in there, away from all light and human kindness. 

We sang together along the beach at sunset, as my friend scattered ashes among the waves and released the spirit of remembrance and grief so long entrapped in the small package. We sang, and we wept. 

I didn't know why I was there. I felt a bit awkward and intrusive. But I sang and sang and my voice, intermingled with the others, carried my insecurity and heartache up as an offering to the ocean.

We packed up the windsurfer and covered the charcoal with sand. We put away the remains of the lobster bake and clam chowder and made a quiet pilgrimage back to the little house by the tolling bell of the old whaling church.

The last night of my island stay, I finally called a dear friend and sang and wept and laughed and shouted up to the stars. I had decided to allow myself to live, acknowledging both the wounds and possibility for healing. 

And now I find myself on the Eve of the first week of December. A week from today, after my final performance as a joyful, barefoot nymph trilling and flitting onstage, I will quietly spend my Sunday evening making Christmas cookies. It will only be one recipe; the one I made for my grandmother last year on the last day we spent together trimming her tree and smiling about how wonderful it was, yes, how wonderful, that green tree.

This advent season is a special, quiet time of preparation, indeed.

I am ferociously happy to be alive. So much so, my heart pains for beating and pounding through my chest cavity and rupturing my ribs. One hundred ideas course from my mind through my veins and back and the flow is unceasing.

More to come. 

A song cycle

First thing yesterday morning, I did yoga.

Do it. This video:

http://youtu.be/TtJS-5xZnTs

After yoga, I made tea and coffee and had yogurt and settled down to read. I  have a Martin Luther German translation of the Bible, which I have begun reading again. Every statement is filled with a new strength in this language. It's amazing. I'm moved to read everything out loud, the way the Bible ought to be read. 

I was moved to start reading through the psalms first, so I made my way through four of King David's. Then I switched, and opened my Mary Oliver anthology.

For anyone out there who doesn't know Mary Oliver, she is a lovely poet who has spent much of her life on Cape Cod. She writes mainly naturalist poetry, meaning her subjects primarily tend toward dealing with nature. She also has a handful of poems about mornings and sunrise and the start of a new beautiful day, and the moment I opened the well loved book, I knew what had to be done.

I got to work, copying out my favorite morning poems, and searching for a few new ones. Copying over poems in my own handwriting is one of my favorite things to do. Does anyone else out there do this?

The first step: find the text.

The second step: find the music.

I'm going to call in some friends to help with that second part, and will report back soon.

The bread

A recipe for the herb and cheese spiral bread, one of the more lovely and springy doughs I've made. 

The recipe is from Ladle, Leaf, and Loaf, by Lisa Cowden, recipe book of all soups, salads, and breads, with some spreads as well and pairing suggestions. 

I would pair the lemon honey butter with this bread, and be wary of bringing it to large groups of people before you've had the chance to try some yourself!

to cross off my list

Sometimes creativity seizes me and I am unable to complete any other task until I have realized a small vision or idea.

This weekend, two strong desires came over me.

The first was to bake. And bake. And bake. I made frosted and sparkling Christmas cookies, berry bread delight thing, three different kinds of bread, and oatmeal cranberry cookies.

Not to mention, I cooked a sauce I've been in the works of perfecting---eggplant, onion, garlic, soft buttery mushrooms, ginger, tomatoes, and a dash of red wine. Simmered, simmered, simmered until everything breaks apart in a beautiful conglomeration of scent and taste. Poured over any kind of pasta or soaked up with bread.

But the second desire was not as easy to fulfill. There's this song...

It was always a Sara Bareilles song in the college that got to me. We sang a different one almost every year in my a cappella group, and they are piercingly beautiful. I wonder if Sara has a tap into my day-to-day ups and downs, the way her songs eerily line up with the events of my life.

However, since graduation, now a few years ago, I've been less in sync with her lyrics. Except, well, for one. This one song kept coming back, pretty much every single time romance failed me. Or I it. Or the universe contrived to bring me walking home, in the rain, where the only possible thing that shouldn't happen, happened. And so the recent heartbreak came upon me, walking in the rain already weeping.

I've tried to learn this song on the piano, to get rid of its hold on me. That never stuck, I also never made it through the whole way memorized. So I finally broke out my guitar, sat in my favorite place in the house, and did it. There were times in the last year when I couldn't sing this song without falling apart. There were also times when I couldn't sing at all, and I didn't.

What a great thing--- to be singing now.

willkommen! bienvenue! welcome!

here's to a season of new creativity, ideas, and partnerships----

sunshine for lucy may turn into an actual group of individuals making music together, but for now it is a personal movement, inspired by a breakfast order from a few days ago. I picked up the egg sandwich on a multigrain everything bagel (you read that correctly--- multigrain AND everything) and went back to the barista side of the cafe to await my latte. An older woman ambled by, checked me out, and said, "oh you're the lucy? 'sunrise for lucy' would make a great band name."


the beauty of the tiny everyday normal ways we change the lives of those around us.

as some of you, dear readers, may know, it took me a full 20 years to decide that my favorite color was green. i take a very, very long time with these kinds of things because i love so many things so dearly. i used to think this was a problem, that in order to know who I am, I should make clear decisions about everything so I could fill out the multiple choice questionnaire one day on demand.

But I've learned now, with the help of many named and unnamed teachers, friends, and mentors, that I am made up of many things, and that is what makes me me. I finally embracing this truth.

The lady in the coffeeshop has no idea that her comment was a wonderful gift to me. I have been given a name I have been searching for all my life, and now I am going to write under it and see what adventures come.

So this little blog will be a collecting point for any and all of my current creative endeavors.

Expect to see my audition tape for Yale.

Expect to see the working steps toward a collaborative and semi-improvisational song cycle settings of Mary Oliver poems.

Expect to see a prayer shawl all the colors and textures of the rainbow.

There will be many, many things. I am looking forward to sharing them, all.