By Maryanna Gabriel
Living on an island, one is not privvy to city nicities. Lately, I have been craving a Danish and it being Easter, I decided to bake.
I thought about healing as I worked the dough. I roll the butter into the flour and it takes shape. Wounding is soothed and abrasion is smoothed by several pats and time out in the fridge.
The rhubarb filling simmers, its pungent scent fills the kitchen with peace, more powerful than anger. I set the syrupy mixture aside to cool.
Staring past the window, I watch a hummingbird. Chaos is an option. I don't have to participate.
Back to the dough. Fold the butter, roll, turn. The pastry takes time. Roll. Healing takes time. Turn. Dough, butter, dough, butter. Turn. The more layered, the flakier. Abrasion, peace, abrasion, peace. An umbrication.
The Danish and I become one. Dignity. My layers soften. Out of the oven, and oh so divine.
