in the kitchen

Irreverent Baking
by Maya Stein

I should be upstairs with the others, drumming up ways
to heal the world, save the animals, pray for water
in a far-off continent, devote the remainder of my days
to a catalog of restorations. But this morning, it was the matter
of scones that drew my gaze, and my feet remained
planted in the kitchen. One must never ignore the instinct
to create, is what I told myself, and soon the counter was stained
with flour, my hands sticky with dough, the house inked
with the smell of blueberry possibility, and I knew I was not wrong.
This was my prayer, my act of healing, my offering, my song.

Long ago, when I worked at a restaurant in Victoria, the owner impressed upon the cooks that it was a skill to operate efficiently within a confined workspace. Even though I heard that comment well over 15 years ago, it gifted me with knowing that one can have an impact with austere resources. Specifically, that my small kitchen is enough.

Upon a few square feet of kitchen counter I believe I have healed multitudes of wounds.

I’ve executed my favourite banana bread recipe in perfect repetition. I’ve made morning glory muffins for friends when they became mothers. I’ve shaped loaves, rolled dough out for pizzas and twisted cinnamon buns. I’ve prepared the ingredients for innumerable vats of borscht, laksa, pho and especially what has come to be known simply as “orange soup”.¹ I’ve prepared chicken for the oven and peeled vegetables for snacks.

And don’t get me started on the routine of coffee making. The luxury of our first cup is sometimes among my last thoughts of the day.

“Tomorrow morning I get to drink coffee.”

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Once when Blake and I were deeply missing our American friends, I fixed up biscuits and gravy while he was busy in another room. He knows that I’m not fond of the combination. He knows that I can’t eat it without experiencing discomfort. He knew it was for him. I remember seeing the surprise and knowing in his eyes when he walked into the kitchen.

A benefit of living in a condo community is the food exchange; texts that read, “Have you eaten dinner? I made lots and can bring up a plate.”

In the final months of my pregnancy I cooked up a storm. I made so much that I had to outsource significant freezer space. When Trip arrived we worked our way through the food over three solid months. I felt I cared for myself in a way that I may never manage to repeat.

There is often a delivery of food when little jack comes down. Meat from his father and baking from his partner. I never feel I’ve thanked them often enough, and sometimes I know I’ve outright neglected to send a message at all. But I never forget the kindness. Same goes for pastries from our neighbour. Or an entire meal from my mother-in-law. Sure, they say that it’s the thought that counts, but have you tasted this croissant?!

Food is such a kindness to share.

Lately I’ve thought about how much the gestures mean to me and their indication of thoughtfulness. It is so easy to choose not to do them. My gratitude rewires the pathways in my mind. I am more easily satisfied. I used to measure happiness by a major achievement or a trip abroad. Now I see food sharing as a blessing. As a reason to be happy. So many go without. I am often in abundance.

The act of creating in the kitchen is a wonder. In a small space with a few simple ingredients, you can heal hearts, hunger and minds.

1. When Blake and I toured Europe as openers for Colter Wall in ‘19 we were served soup in Oslo. We were on our 14th gig within 17 days and in the 11th country. By this time we had surpassed the classic John Candy “trains, planes and automobiles” trifecta by also utilizing buses, trams, and a train that drove ONTO A BOAT, which is something I never even knew was possible. Anyway… the soup. We were served soup in Oslo and it made me cry because it was orange soup and it tasted it exactly like the stuff I whip up at home without a recipe. It was surreal. Blake and I ate it with gusto and felt renewed.

Tour tired.