Layers

I measure out the flour, silky and white on my hands, leveling the cups with a shiny knife.

And the night's dreams, filled with screaming and anger, flicker through my mind like a movie. Glad to be awake and safe, warm in my kitchen; glad the dream isn't an accurate reflection of those relationships.

Next into the bowl are sprinkles of salt, a little sugar, some cinnamon. I mix it all together with my pastry blender, enjoying the tactile pleasure of working with flour.

I hear an actor's voice talking about his father, the years he's enjoyed with him, the pleasure of watching him through the phases of both their lives. And tears salt my flour as I wish for my father, gone from me, and I'm only 41. How I long for his voice, his affirmation, his love, his laugh. The twinkle in his eyes, the wrinkles around his smile, those rough hands that held mine with such tenderness and almost unbearable love.

The shortening is pure white and curls prettily under the spatula and into the measuring cup. I cut it into the flour mixture, working to make crumbs and readying it for the buttermilk. This is something I do know how to do - make a tender biscuit, a tender crust - with just enough salt to tingle on the tongue, and just enough fat to make it melt in your mouth. I cut it in without having to think, the movements of my hands effortless.

Music plays and tugs on my heart, drawing out more tears. Thoughts from the morning flicker across my mind's eye. Baseball season is over, but I'm already anxious to hear that sound of ball on bat and cheer for my boys. The nights are cold now, too cold to leave any windows open and I miss that fresh air on my face. And I'm unpacking my sweaters, so happy to see each one, old friends that hug me in warmth and softness winter after winter. And how glad I am to be well enough to be back in my kitchen, cooking, enjoying, creating.

I gently stir in the buttermilk, soured with just a little extra vinegar so my biscuits will have a tang to contrast with the jam and honey. The dough forms, purposely uneven, and I carefully incorporate the loose bits in the bowl, unwilling to get it all in there as too much effort will toughen my pastry. The lightly floured board waits and I hand-press the biscuits, cutting them with a knife.

They'll come out of the oven twice as high, hot, layered, and flaky.

This is my life. This is where I live. This is who I am. And today it feels good to feel, to let the tears fall, to cook what my heart wants on a chilly, fall morning, and to not push away memories. Not really enough words, or perhaps no adequate words, to describe where my mind is, where my emotions lie today as they are conflicted and convoluted.

Today I'll just be content knowing that both the comforting and the painful can rest in my heart, bed-fellows of my dreams and my days.