Apples and more tart apples appear, seemingly out of nowhere. Three shopping bags fill the kitchen, more breed in a Bed Bath and Beyond bag on the doorstep this morning. Something has to be done. We get the cookbooks out.
A cobbler and crisp are in order.
This time I was a bit more prepared. Chose to invite Patience, Even Breathing, Laughter, and Present Moment to the party.
"Yes and" became my mantra.
Repeatedly reading the recipe, asking for clarification “A big T or little t behind the number?” Turn my back and the ingredient went missing, teaspoon is washed and put away, oven is off, batter takes on another dimension, honey dripping down the side of the cabinet, I simply chuckle and start from the top. Again.
Instead of a question - where did you put the pan? I check myself and ask if I am being curt, withholding compassion, getting perturbed with an adult that truly thinks like a child?
In many ways, the afternoon reminds me of baking with my daughter when she was little. We made it a game, giggling and playing with new tastes. The pleasure of togetherness.
The cobbler resembles Pillsbury Dough Boy flattened by a Fed Ex truck. Lumpy and dirt brown. We decided to name it “Sure isn’t anything like a Cobbler!” Not bad, though. The Apple Crisp is out of this world good. We take a pan to the neighbor who has apples multiplying like rabbits…oh boy!
“I’m going to miss you,” she states clearly.
"Me too," I declare, with stunning honesty, as I pull away in my car.
I look forward to working with you, and your loved one, in whatever capacity they can manage.
Call me Sorted Affairs!