That's it. I'm officially a big kid. This Passover, instead of heading down to Seattle, my parents (and a stray cousin) came here for Seder. From the first cup of wine to the last guest, the meal stretched out over six leisurely hours of food, wine, stories, and photocopied family Haggadahs.
There is an elemental satisfaction in food rituals and feast days. Growing up on a block of lapsed Catholics and atheist Jews, we built our community on a foundation of food traditions. The latkes, matzo ball soup, my grandma's brisket, Kathy's almond crescent cookies, peppermint ice cream, the Christmas tamales: these took the place of story or prayer or God at the center of our gatherings.
This, I think, is really why I'm still doggedly holding on to the idea of a community wood fired oven, even as the weeks slip by and we approach my summer oh-shit-I'm-out-of-time deadline, and I have yet to lay a single brick: I want the feast days of my childhood recreated here, with new traditions for my new community. I want to bring people together with food and fire, to make a gathering place that feels like home.
In the meantime, I'm detouring from oven planning, again, for the farmers market. This week's breads are Red & White, Rosemary & Sea Salt, Mountain Rye, and Smoky Vollkornbrot. And alongside the usual sweet treats, I'm making a rhubarb & lebneh tart, and some darling spruce tip & spring potato galettes.
See you soon!