18 December 2019

0 let them bake bread

since this started in earnest last month, i've repeatedly paired watching the impeachment stories with baking bread.

the vindman testimony and that of fiona hill the following week were banana.

that weird judiciary committee hearing where the lawyers from the intelligence committee hearing were witnesses before the judiciary was chocolate peppermint.

today's judiciary committee vote is, appropriately, gingerbread. my favorite food in all the world.

before i was "a latch-key kid" (a term that is sooooooo 1990s, non?), pre-6th grade, i attended an after school care place called "children's world" (garebear, for the record, has historically referred to this as "chicken's world"), where one of the after-school snacks was gingerbread.

everyone else seemed to hate gingerbread. i looooooooooooooooooved it.

like a love beyond any other i have experienced, at least for a food.

(sidenote... breaking news: how come people still cannot convincingly, confidently say quid pro quo?? we've been using this latin for months. come on.)

when i would walk into chicken's world after a long day of third grade, the fragrance would float on the wind and i'd know it was gingerbread day.

we were forbidden from having seconds until everyone had had firsts, so i'd linger like a vulture around the snack table, waiting for all those other freaks who hated gingerbread to access the table, grumble that it was gross, and then head out to the monkeybars. and then, reader, i would attack.

firsts, seconds, thirds (especially, if it was still warm). god, i'm getting hot just remembering it now.

when we were working at the BL and SH, N-- who was always frustrated by my inability to recap, in detail, the flavors involved in my meals eaten out-- eventually would deliberately try to work all our conversations back around to my gingerbread memories from chicken's world, because this was the only context in which she could get me to wax lyrical, at length and in detail, about food.

after, i'd be sitting there fanning myself, trying to recover my composure from the intensity of a food i consumed 30 years ago. and N would look at me, knowingly, and say the very true thing: it's like your madeleine. 

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