The sun is high and the weather has turned warm. After two months of heavy winter, this neighborhood came alive over the weekend. Out from the houses emerged the families, couples, friends. From the houses came the children and the pets, all yearning for the release of outside. There was fog to start, but eventually the sun came through. I walked the beach that foggy morning, just before the sun and the families came out to join the quiet party. We were all starved for sunlight and warmth, and that is reason enough for celebration.

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This weekend I had to admit that I have gained weight. My figure is looking winter-tired and middle-aged. It is a shocking combination. I do not hate myself for this. I am changing my habits. And yes, I am starting to eat the sun.

We all eat the sun. We eat it through plants without a doubt, but we also eat up through our bodies. Our receptors crave the sunlight, the very frequency of heat and dynamic reactions and interactions. Our lives crave light because it is part of our alchemy, and our source. We eat the sun like we savor tenderness. We gorge ourselves in radiation come the summer, but even now, with these first days of warmth, we consume the promise of sunshine.

Today there might be sun by you, too. Maybe you have rain. Unfortunately, we all have war. I hate it. I don’t want to talk about it because in my mind I get all the arguments, but in my spirit, I care for none of them. I care not for the charts, and the macho bravado that declares their authority to decide everything for others. It’s as if someone got to tell us what or how to eat. For women it as if the fight doesn’t have us in it. We might be objects, but we aren’t consumers or decision-makers.

But we eat the sun just like everyone else.

I never saw the sun refuse to shine on you, or me or anyone else. I have never heard the sun tell a woman, to hide her eyes, cheeks and lips from its warmth. I have never heard, not even once, nature saying we women can not eat the sun. Refusing to feed us in not something the sun would think to do. In the sun’s eyes we are equal to each other and to the plants and for that matter, all life.

This weekend I got my first taste of something we need. If anyone tells you that you don’t get a seat at their table, then tell them that the sun would never refuse you. It would never tell you to go hide from its shine. It would never tell you to fall in line with the smoke, and unfortunately these mirrors. Two sides, three sides — in the light of economic interdependence we don’t just eat sun outside as we stay there. We eat the sun as oil, we adorn ourselves with it as diamonds, and clothes. Whether I like it or not, the sun takes many forms, and I consume if not actually “eat” them all.

But I like to say I eat it. Because then it goes right to your gut. And that, can change your mind. Let’s hope some of these men starting wars they won’t die in go outside and ask themselves, How would I lead, if I were the sun? Not a sun-god or a sun-king, but if I lost my ego for just a second — how would I burn myself and share myself —- if sun were my very self.

We all eat the sun and that should bring us together.

Love You So Much,

Mariette

PS—I’ll share some of those gorgeous foggy photos in some Notes for those of you who have the substack app! And for anyone who wants MORE please comment! And sorry if the audio isn’t perfect. We are moving at the speed and faultiness of humans over here.

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I’ve been obsessed again, and this time it’s with the holidays, and my favorite radio stations. I guess they inspired me to record you a note.

Light the light and be the magic is all I want for you, for me, for this planetary family.

Merry Merry to All and to All, Peace, and Faith in your worth.

The sesame seeds that I fell in love with when I was in West Africa? Yes, and thank you, a Benne Seed wafer recipe for you!

In learning more about the sacking of Constantinople my love of Venice has become mroe complex and fraught, but these traditional Venetian cookies bring out the pure joy of life.

You know panettone. Do you know Pan D’oro? Now you will. I’ve had it and loved it but to be honest never knew the difference was this grand or complex.

Lastly, Venezuelan cake? Apparently this one is no bake and can be made with these or similar cookies.

And if you’re up to your ears in multi-taking, then just breathe.

Love,

Mariette

RADIO RADIO?

* https://www.radiofrance.fr/fip

* https://wdvrfm.org/

* https://kutx.org/

* https://www.wbgo.org/

* https://www.wqxr.org/streams/

* https://wfuv.org/content/fuv-live-2

* https://www.nts.live/radio

Hi Everyone!

It’s the second of April and I’m feeling the chill and the promise of the season.

Coming correct to my best ability, I wore a more formal jacket to honor the inspiring audacity of New Jersey State Senator, Cory Booker.

I can say that my home state’s senior senator has demonstrably more stamina than yours because mine just occupied the US Senate for a record 25 hours and five minutes. This isn’t about politics as much as it is about the power of a person to stand up and take a risk. What are you risking today?

Sometimes the biggest risk we can take is believing in ourselves.

How do we get from one day to another and from one season to the next? Well, from our religions to ancient wellness traditions, fasting is one of them. For Christians this is a time of fasting, and Cory Booker made me think about that fact since he had to fast to prepare for a marathon without bathroom breaks. Seriously, that’s discipline, or maybe, it is devotion.

Luciano Pavarotti, the great opera singer is quoted as saying,

“People think I'm disciplined. It is not discipline. It is devotion. There is a great difference,"

In this spring season many of us cleanse, detox or fast for our beliefs, and so we derive our discipline from our devotion. It seems like that power of devotion is something Booker honed in on as he prepared to take a very big, somewhat risky leap.

Now, I won’t let my Jersey Proud moment be the only part of our day or this week, but I’d like to use it as a portal, deeper into conscious consumption. I would like to take it all the way to poetry.

In fact, today’s video started with this bit of poetry from Li-Young Lee, From Blossoms.

You can hear more of me reading it aloud in the video, or go to Poetry dot org and read the whole beautiful poem.

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Spring is a good time to wander deeper into ourselves, a good time to understand that we get a chance to blossom every year on this planet. It’s a very good time to think about these beginnings and not just about the times when we harvest the fruit.

This is spring. It is fitful, transitional, inspiring and despite its unsettling nature, it is reliable.

In some ancient traditions this was the beginning of the new year. In our own modern traditions it remains for many of us the start of our spiritual year. Whatever your inclination it’s a good time to reset your sense of what is possible, to reset what you are and what you are willing to be.

It’s a good time to understand how we devote ourselves to our health, our truth, our dreams. It’s a good time to think about dust and peaches and the bright power of the sun. It’s a good time to peek into the shadows, too.

In closing here and in the video, I promise to keep making these live chats available and to do better every day and week. I promise the lighting and the audio will get better. I know, I don’t look so good! Oh well.

I promise that I’ll reliably get out there in the mornings so we’re not having coffee at night, except sometimes that will happen too. I promise to devote myself to this process and nothing more. It’s too fresh out here to make really big promises now.

I’m not perfect at this going live habit, but I am devoted to you. What will blossom from it? We don’t yet know. That’s the fun, isn’t it?

Like this? Not a subscriber? You can help keep it going by sharing, joining and telling your friends. If you want to help me bring you the coffee, you can tip me!

PS— I mention the joys of drinking cardamom in my coffee, and a little bit about what it can do for you. Like most if not all spices, there is medicine in that food. But, don’t take my advice as gospel as I’m not trying to doctor or treat you, and legally the government will attack me if I say that I do. Here’s just one of many links to help you learn more.

Love.

Dear Kneaders,

You will not find me talking about how bad the new Meghan Markle show is even if it has some serious moments of cringe. I won’t walk away from the fact that she’s also wearing clothes that don’t deserve to be in a kitchen. I’m not saying the woman should wear rags, but her most elegant play clothes come in colors and fabrics whose stain releasing qualities would seriously get a workout if ever the spaghetti a la Meghan splattered. Sauces splatter.

Trust me, I know that sauces splatter because I cook at home. As we know, I don’t cook particularly well, although I cook pretty well. I can make a comforting soup and place it in a bowl and serve it to people I know. That’s half the battle with comfort food, which was our topic and still is in this video.

How does With Love, Meghan fit into our running conversation on comfort food? It fits in because Meghan is obviously uncomfortable with where she is these days. She’s no longer the girl whose mom worked, and she’s no longer the actor. She’s no longer a lot of things she was, because nobody stays the same. Our lives change, and Meghan is at an age when the lines between who she was and where she’s going, feel a little blurry. She’s a mother, a wife, and she’s no longer sure what her last name is. In that sense, some of us, if not all, must relate.

Those blurry lines between who were and who are today, these are universal to all of us as we grow and as we age.

Meghan is no exception to the universal law, that life is change.

The big deal here is that Meghan married a prince so in addition to relatable changes she has other, less relatable changes shaping her world.

Meghan Markle did what so many little girls could not, despite dreaming for it often, and so most of us won’t forgive her. I get it. I’m not opposed to the sentiment of celebrity jealousy, but I think there’s something else at work here too.

Not only is Meghan not worried about the price of eggs, she has her own chickens. She has her own bees. She has people who tend to the eggs and the bees, at least when she’s off doing her show. That’s why the whole show feels awkward. It’s why the internet is having a field day with her. It’s why I am telling you that if you miss Season 1 of this show, it’s perfectly OK. The entire first season feels like a TV pilot. Watch it if you must, either to root Meghan on as she arranges flowers, or makes her first dumplings, or to experience your own jaw dropping as she tells you how simple it is to live like her while casually pointing to the massive expanse of wilderness that separates her backyard from…the rest of the world.

Comfort Food Isn’t always Comfortable

I’ll say that I managed to gather myself at some point after seeing Meghan and Harry’s backyard mountain range. As I say in the video, from the opening bee keeping scene, to the final brunch wearing a gown on a set that she most definitely did not arrange, Meghan stuns because we are watching her level up. Her comfort zone is gone.

So, how does an actor who is hardly relatable fit into our tour through the meaning of comfort food? Well, just like was saying, yesterday’s comfort doesn’t always fit into tomorrow’s. From emotions, and memories, to intimacy — some comfort food is destined to stay in the past. Even the good parts have to be reimagined as our lives progress.

Our musical tastes often change, but play the right song and you might find yourself driving like a ten-year old you, but with a license and a job.

Our love of grandma’s pasta might never go away, but maybe you don’t feel like making it from scratch or maybe you never learned and so you can’t. Maybe you just have to treat yourself to an amazing meal where the chef revives your comfort zone by making that one pasta.

Maybe none of that happens and you find yourself making your best version of this comfort food while asking grandma’s ghost to look away for a moment. Comfort food of any kind is always balanced against our changing world, our very real lives.

Life moves on and comfort can get way more complex.

Meghan is on an adventure! Along with her are women as thin as wafers and husbands who hang out at the polo match. There are professional chefs and gorgeous landscapes and stylists aplenty, too. And somewhere in there, Meghan and this lifestyle brand of hers is going to sink or swim, and that will depend on her authenticity. Can Meghan level up without losing some part of her? Can she make us like her? Maybe not as an expert but as a co-learner, Meghan might be able to make a go of this.

Because life can get very complex, I am rooting for Meghan. I know she might not meet my hopes for her, but that’s OK. I fail for myself daily. I know she wants to be in her Martha Stewart stage, but honestly, get in line. P.S. Watch the video, here to understand how I see that comparison.

Love, Mariette

PPS - Buzzfeed did their own test of the pasta.

Hate or love what I have to say? in the comments, please.

And please, please SHARE this Knead if you want to hear more. I have to buy eggs and there is no prince. :) The more follows the more I have a chance of affording Meg’s jams once they’re out.

You can even tip me at ko-fi. :)

Dear Kneaders,

In this live video I am seated in my car, my back to the Atlantic ocean and some blue skies. Pull up with a cup of your favorite beverage and join me as we slough off the winter energy and keep this week’s conversation on comfort food moving into new territory: intimacy.

How does intimacy fit into comfort food? How doesn’t it. How does that fit into conscious consumption? In every possible way. Need an example? Just take a gander at Los Angeles chef Evan Funke. Last fall Netflix launched their Chef’s Table series into the world of noodles and if you’re slow like me, you still need to see it. Don’t wait.

In a world where machines seem. to be ready to take over all the best parts of being human, watching Chef Funke stretch and shape pasta is a reminder of what we humans can do. It’s a deep dive into cuisine and into relationships. Every single plate of Funke’s pasta is a link to food history and this chef takes these links very seriously.

Join Evan in his healthy masculinity.

Join Evan as he gets his very own specialty “mattarello” or rolling pin to rubes like me. Follow him as he travels with his rolling pin into the lives of women who have been holding down pasta traditions that date back centuries. Feel the tension in all their hands as they roll and press dough into plates of pasta that machines can’t make. Lean into that intimacy that starts and ends with people. It’s a great trip, and you won’t regret it. You might even get a little teary-eyed like I did.

If rifling through a cookbook by Tom Colicchio started us off this week thinking about comfort food as memory food, and if our surprise visit with food photographer Andrew Scrivani gave us emotional food, then Evan Funke draws us into this profound intimacy that can make food something not merely special or exclusive, but truly moving.

OK, go watch the video! Go watch the Netflix!

Oh, don’t have Netflix? OK, you can watch this video on YouTube to get a taste. It won’t have exactly the same luxurious cinematography that is Chef’s Table’s signature, but it’s still very good.

This video’s beverage - I mention I am drinking roasted dandelion root in my cup. If you’re not familiar with dandelions except as weeds, they are so much more. Spring is the season for gentle detoxing, the time to mimic the great melting of nature’s icy realms by drinking cleansing teas and soups. If you want to learn more about flushing out the sluggish winter feelings, drop a comment and we’ll go deeper!

To learn more about Evan and his restaurants visit his site.

Today I packed one of my mugs and headed over to one of the best coffee spots in the area, Café Volan. It was like a little springtime voice was in my head saying, “Get out of the house!” Sure enough, the voice was right and we got lucky. We ran into Andrew Scrivani a local resident, former New Yorker, and oh yea, longtime food photographer and contributor to The New York Times.

You can check out the live video above if you missed us outside Volan, and make sure to follow Andrew on Instagram (andrewscrivani) or visit his website. He’s also here on Substack so check him out at Andrew Scrivani and give him a follow.

Have a rising food content creator in your life? Be sure to share this post because Andrew gives great tips we could all use.

Here’s a little taste of what Andrew teaching:

I turned off the camera pretty quickly today but we kept walking and talking on food, life and emotions. Emotions and memory are what fuel humans. Replenishing ourselves with “comfort” food connects us to those memories, and to those emotions. Andrew still remembers how his great-grandmother’s sauce touched him, shaping him to this very day.

I’m hoping we’ll have a chance to go live with Andrew and Milo again soon and when we do, I promise I’ll leave the camera on longer.

Go check out Andrew’s links up at the top, and don’t forget to call your grandma and thank her for all the times she made magic, the kind that might just last you a lifetime.

The second part of my January trip is actually the first in my 2025 journal. I’m not sure why, but sometimes those who are second, end up first in a neurospicy mind. Or maybe it’s just the fact that the tying together of people, through connections, is at the heart of this trip.

Into historical America I went, from Saratoga to Kingston, New York, the first capitol of the United States. Before Washington, D.C. there was Kingston, and still it has an intersection that bears the marks of those times. It is straight and small, with four stone houses. “The Four Corners, as it's referred to by locals, at Crown and John Streets is the only intersection in America where the buildings on all four corners were built pre-Revolutionary War.” It’s now a hub of arts and a place growing steadily, especially since the pandemic.

We all met up and went to the Old Dutch Church to hear Laraaji, the laughing meditation composer in his performance for the nomadic arts series, Ambient Church. Laraaji guided us on a sonic journey mixing up traditions and religions, without more than a few sweet words here and there. Peace emanated, and people were kind, and when we moved from seats where we could not see to the balcony, nobody stopped us. We got so close to the speakers that a man said, “Please be careful or the sound for the whole performance will go.” It was relaxed, and the building and the performance, along with the video transported the room without a spaceship.

Before that though, was a meal at The Kinsley, the kind of easy, streamlined place where you immediately lose ten pounds and gain mysterious cool points as soon as you enter. OK, it’s not pretentious, but it is an elevated meal experience. I had pasta with mushrooms. It has a fancier name I forget. It was delicate, balanced, not boring and everything felt fresh. A salad with crispy chickpeas and greens softer than silk in a good way, made the staple item a standout. I sat next to a Rocksteady recording enjoying a cocktail, the It’s Not My Fault I’m Happy with smoky mezcal. Then it was time to go. Not enough time, but I snapped a few snaps for the memories.

I am a sucker for grown up spaces that will nonetheless decorate with vinyl records. I also have a soft spot for Camel cigarette branding, even though I know it’s bad for us. But since my grandpa smoked those camels, I couldn’t help but feel like this hotel restaurant was secretly blessed. It understands what is durable about excellence in an unfussy but attentive style.

After the meal and the show, and friends meeting friends and plans being made to catch up again after some sleep, we headed back to the very special AirBnb at Colonel Hasbrouck’s 1735 Stone House. The current owners had it given a plaque on the outside so people will know that Sojourner Truth, a powerful grandmother of American history once stayed. She lived there while successfully suing and winning the freedom of her son, Peter. She lived in this part of the house. The hearth was hers while she was here.

I notice the space’s lines, matching up a tiny arched area in the bedroom with the huge vaulted arc in the church. Zero connection exists except for that of time and place. Maybe more connections exist, some are in historical books and some of these get lost. I guess that’s not a small thing to appreciate architectural features but it’s in these tiny patterns that the aliveness of history becomes so much easier to relate to.

Now the pine planks are refinished into a minimal yet cozy staycation destination. There is fresh-roasted coffee beans left for me on the desk. The grinder and chemex are in the smart corner kitchen steps away. It’s a nook of a home, but nowadays it comes with washer and dryer, and room enough to sleep four on two beds. It has a shower that makes me look forward to morning.

In the morning I went to the bookstore that stands at Four Corners. I walked back to the church and around this busy little idyl in Kingston. I looked into the mix of grit and revolutionary energy quietly. I bought soup from Sissy’s on a whim, and because the counter person let me try the apple bisque before buying. It was a win for both of us. Then I wandered some more before heading out. I enjoyed the graffiti, the art that Norman Mailer said, was a sign of the birth of another world. I smile.

What do we owe the powerful people of the past? What do we owe them when we feel the world stirring in ways that make us uneasy? I have no idea. But while I enjoyed a drink by the hearth of Colonel Hasbrouck’s house I felt as if something calm and strong were in the room. It felt like peace and courage, it felt revolutionary in a still kind of way. It was silent and active, awake and attentive, and it had a trueness that had no sound, but which floated in my mind as if carried by music. It felt like something strong stood there once. Maybe it was the bricks or maybe it was the Colonel or maybe it was Sojourner Truth, giving me a taste of who she was in those days when this country was new.

Funny how that happens. Thank You Kingston.

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This year for Thanksgiving I went crazy with pies. I made five.

I somehow did not think I was being ambitious. I felt just like I do before anything creative. I felt excited and challenged like I would before going on a photo trip, or like I would before writing something on a deadline.

There was one exceptional difference with the five pie mission and the rest of my artistic pursuits and it has everything to do with the nature of food. The thing about food is that the art you make with it is meant to disappear. Unlike everything else we make, where we worry about it lasting for as long as possible, food is art we hope will go quickly.

Cooking reminds me of those sand mandalas that the Buddhist monks make.

Monks can spend countless hours building a sacred image from colored sand and then in the end, they sweep it away.

The thing with any perishable art form is that nothing should be left at the end. To succeed in the kitchen the art you make in it must disappear just like the sand mandala must disappear. To succeed with food you must have a kind of plan in mind, a sense of tastes; a sense of harmony. To express your vision successfully you need to know a few things before you even turn on the oven. You need to have a sense of the tools, the things that make up your canvas and your paints.

When does the cooking really begin? Like all art, it starts before anyone can see a thing.

The sand art starts well before they lay the first line. The sand must be collected, the inks of gypsum and sandstone and ochre must be ground into powder, then mixed. The primary colors must be diluted to make for pastels and compound colors. All the sand must be prepared to the correct amounts. The list goes on, I’m sure. Eventually, the first line goes down, then the first sand is applied. Two prayerful fingers begin the process.

How can the sand being applied not remind me of spices?

The sand and its similarity to spices sits with me now, post pie frenzy. A few other thoughts take shape:

Food is the ultimate disappearing message.

Food is a powerful love letter that gets devoured.

Making food according to a vision is a powerful act.

Each meal or elaborate dish, let’s say a pie in this instance, is a picture of intention, preparation, of a vision coming to fruition. Food is the art we consume from cradle to grave, and learning to make it “perfect” each time is a sign of devotion, of endless repetition. Learning to make and remake the vision, according to season, budget, even to changing tastes, is all part of matching intention to the realities of time and space. That’s a bit different than the monks do with the sand, but not really.

Each disappearing message of love is different, but the same. Written in a cup of tea and a slice of bread, or in a multi-course meal from food you grew yourself, food transmits the situation, the chef, the entire matrix of place and time. Food carries messages we call culture, but which also mean; geography, economy, resources.

This year I wanted to make my nephew a happy boy. He is peanut allergic and most of what you and I eat, he can not. Cross contamination is a constant threat.

To make my grand vision of what I’ll call “Lots of pies Thanksgiving,” come together I had to build on my existing skills and years of baking. I had to draw on what I saw inside the sand builders, and pull that out of me, so the work felt like a dance, a meditation, an altered state. I drew on the types of prayers that our ancestors made before making the food, meal after meal, year after year.

In my mind’s eye I like to imagine the tiny prayers of thanks, the soft songs of praise — for the divine force that makes the wheat, the water, the great unknown. I like to imagine them in different languages and voices. I like to see them across time and space, from my great-grandmothers and fathers, and so on and so forth until I come to me here today. To set the intention is a kind of a wish, and a wish with a direction, well that’s a prayer. Simple. People bless food as they cook it. That blessing is like a magical ingredient.

To make the pies feel effortless all I had to do was think of these kinds of quiet kaleidoscope moments, where food is being laid across table upon table, countless times. All I had to do to be inspired was to think of how song and prayer can be the same. All I had to do, was make tiny moves of intention before I made a single cooking gesture.

Now, inspiration is great, but what else helped me with the lots of pies mission?

As I was finishing up my final pie of what had turned into five pies, I knew that all the work I had recently tried with epoxy had made a huge difference in how I handled the kitchen this time.

Epoxy? It’s the hard coat shell on your surfboard. It’s the gooey plastic that sets rock hard to repair a leak in your pipes. Epoxy is inedible, sometimes smelly, and in its most surprising form epoxy is what gives the gel in your manicure its tenacity. Epoxy is an unlikely material to compare to cooking, or even to sand art, but —here we are.

I made a deep dive into epoxy some months ago. I was thinking about ways of being crafty. I was thinking of ways to resurrect broken things I had seen sitting on the sale rack at the home stores. I wanted to make them feel cute all over again. I wanted to make them beautiful instead of supply chain line trash.

You see, I was meditating on the power of epoxy to mend and remake.

I was trying to honor the lives of the timber. I felt like trees had been sacrificed haphazardly, half a world away, then forced into shapes by underpaid staff, then packed onto shipping containers, gobbling up fossil fuels. The remnants of living trees arrived only to break. The heavy weight of their passage across the ocean was just another forgotten sacrifice, a kind of unseen stupidity.

So that was what I wanted to explore, to repair in some fashion, with high gloss, eco-questionable, plastic magic. I got into the epoxy because I wanted to tell little stories about life, about never giving up the hope that things that go wrong, can be set right.

All the poetic aspirations aside, epoxy has its requirements. Like food that can burn or sand that can blow away, epoxy has parameters.

Epoxy has to be mixed to activate from goo into a hard, shiny resin. The mixing for that is exacting. After the mix, you’re ready to go, but now the clock is ticking. Epoxy has a limited working time once you pour it. It is finicky about the air temperature, and humidity which either extend or limit that working time.

Epoxy demands your attention from beginning to end, and though it may rush you, epoxy will not be rushed. In fact, epoxy goes a next step in demands, because it will often need a couple of coats, and in between those you wait for days. Then you sand. Then you pour. Then you wait. Then you assess. Then…well, you get the picture.

The point here is that epoxy, a decidedly non-culinary item teaches a person about patience, timing, and planning. You need days and weeks of taking the steps to make the tiniest project work. So, you learn to plan. You dive into deep focus during the pour and the spreading. You ignore your messages while working with active epoxy. You do not answer when someone calls your name. You slip into your own meditation and you exit when epoxy and you are done with that bit.

You then walk away and do not touch it again for hours and days. It can be a struggle not to poke at it too soon, leaving behind a print or a deep mark that you will pay for later. It can be a struggle to accept that a turn in the weather means your schedule adjusts. We will say nothing of the struggle that results from seeing a piece of dust fall into your resin. Know that it is real.

The pour itself can be a rush, and blow torching the top of wet epoxy is also very exciting. You see, the torch is for taking out the bubbles that rise to the top. You want those out. Heat will take them out and yes you can use a heat gun, but the torch, which has a flame, well that is special, one could say, elemental.

Both the pour of epoxy and the blow torch remind me of food, of creams and puddings and pies. The epoxy pour came back to me while I was mixing eggs and hot milk for the banana cream pie, and when I was melting chocolate for the chocolate pudding. There is a similar prep-until-you’re-bored kind of time and then a go-go-go-for-it kind of a rush. There is a kind of couple’s dance, that the epoxy and the food bring out in you. There is a subtle signaling between material and artist. I imagine the monks with their sand can relate. I bet anyone praying to get through the day can relate.

Artistry is universal in some key ways.

Build a skillset in one exacting craft and you will be able to apply some part of that skillset to another. Build up a way to concentrate. Give yourself over to a task, to its many steps. Go with the flow until the critical moment has passed, and breathe for a second. Now wait until you do it again. Now relax, while you absorb what just happened.

That rhythm, that dance between maker and material, between intention and realization is universal. That give and take is part of all performance, collaborations, and all good management. That back and forth is no different than the sound of an ocean pulling us in or pushing us out. After all, isn’t this whole planet a type of art?

Anyway, I’ll avoid that tangent…

Art is at the core of it all because art is based on inspiration, on things we can’t see but that somehow go into the making. Skills are what make the inspiration visible, audible, undeniable to the senses. Put art and skills together, and you can learn to do anything, to express yourself in any way you choose. Put art and skills together long enough, and you transform your world. Even if your art does not last, the feeling it puts into other does, because the temporary wrapper holds a permanent message of your intention. Your art, even if it’s a sandwich, ripples across space and time. Yes, even a sandwich has that power.

I say this now while drinking a coffee, eating a slice of store bought cake. Let’s just say I’m aware of the irony, but we’ll get to that another day.

The truth about cooking or baking or whatever it is you call what you do in the kitchen, is that it is nothing short of art. And suddenly, I can not help but think of Bob Ross, the former military officer who turned into a soft-spoken painter of landscapes. I like many grew up on his big hair and his gentle ways, broadcast on public television. I never bought his paint kit, but I remember watching him. It was hypnotic, like watching my mother cook.

Bob Ross had a line in one of his shows where he said, “You have an artist’s license.” That line is one of the most simple, beautiful things I have ever heard. It’s so beautiful to me that I once had a chance to read that line out, along with a bunch of other Bob Ross quotes. I was reading to children working on art in a great big room at a museum. I read the quotes over and over, but the one about the artist’s license, seem to hit me, and the kids the most.

A license is something you earn. It’s a path to freedom. It’s a badge of accomplishment. An artist’s license isn’t just a cute idea, it’s a powerful tool. Bob Ross, I believe he knew what he was doing. He sounded like a soft-spoken monk on his show. He sounded like a person who proudly served the military and just as proudly served his viewers. To me he sounded like a man who understood psychology the kind someone teaches you when you ascend some ranks.

By giving his viewers a license they could be proud of their work, and could be proud of learning, of making, of painting over and over again. Bob Ross understood that process makes perfect, that engagement is the spice of life. Full on, full of focus, Bob Ross seemed to know that having an artist’s license was one sure way to feel your own power to try. Bob was all about giving it your best shot without judgement, canvas after canvas. Disappearing canvases count.

When the Thanksgiving pies went out, they sat next to one perfect apple pie by my mother and one amazingly delicious bread pudding by my niece. I had a taste of both of those before I had my own creations because to me they were the art I didn’t make. I got to be the eater, the consumer, the one who benefits from their prayers, their skills and intentions. To me, the things I didn’t make were the vert messages I wanted to hear. Years of experience for one woman and years ahead for the other, I didn’t want to miss a chance to take in their intention, to consume their art.

From the appetizers, main meal and to these sweets, I received the work and skill of others. By the time we got to the pies, I was happy, one could even say feeling (hashtag) blessed. The only thing I wanted after that, was to see if what I made brought enjoyment. I also wanted to see which ones pleased my nephew the most. Yes, I was collecting data. Yes, I was already preparing for next year.

Food is often taken for granted, and those who prepare it often take themselves for granted, too. There are countless people who cook day after day thinking that transforming raw materials into finished meals is no big deal. In some ways it is no big deal, and yet in others food is the biggest of deals.

Food in fancy restaurants is always beautiful because that’s what we call an industry, a profession; and that has standards you have to meet if asking for payment. Food in homes is often a little messy, not quite perfectly plated and it is given freely. All of the food, whether bought out or eaten at home is the type of art that ripples across our bodies, our lives. Without food, all other art would cease to exist. In this way, the mangled, the messy, the “Oh I tried something new and don’t know if it worked.” is just as precious as those perfect plates or this perfect piece of expensive cake I’m eating.

Remember that the next time you feel down on yourself. You make the world go ‘round with every piece of toast, with every cup of tea you serve. Appreciate yourself. Appreciate those who make that happen for you.

I hope you had a fantastic holiday, one where you ate and shared laughs. I hope that you were happy to be where you were. I also hope that today you have a chance to appreciate yourself, to give yourself a little pat on the back, not for making a perfect dish, but for making a love letter, for offering up an edible message. Appreciate yourself for communicating.

I don’t care if your love manifested from a box recipe or from hours of foraging, prep and bake time. I don’t care what level of chef status you’ve attained or how you express it in the perfect sauce.

What I care about is that you remember that you have an artist’s license and you can use it anytime you like. You can use it to make your own temporary art, or to make art that will live long after you do. You have an artist’s license, go ahead and use it into every part of your life. Bring it into salvaging things that are broken. Bring it into imaging a different world.

Feed that art, or at least its intention, to others. Feed it to them in meals and feed it to them in objects that adorn space. Feed them literally or metaphorically, and no matter what, make sure you feed yourself. You have an artist’s license, and you can not go starving if you want to feed others. Make it five pies or make it a few crackers with jam, make it a playlist or a fabulous sweater that warms your elbows and neck, but feed yourself something that feels like a prayer.

I hope you enjoyed today’s edition of The Knead.

PS if you want to see more on the sand mandalas watch this video, it’s not in English, but it doesn’t need to be.

What do they want? What will I make? This is so exciting. Are we done yet?

Call me wicked, call me real, but the holidays bring out the best in me. That does not mean they don’t feel like a sprint, a race or some kind of epic journey. Year after year, I like legions of women and at least a few men, prepare for the holidays as if it were own private Olympics. Whether you host a meal or assist, the training, the pain and the payoff, are real.

The holidays frenzy starts with Thanksgiving and it just keeps going until the end of the year. Until that final day of the calendar has passed we run a marathon, albeit in chunks. As with any grueling endeavor of endurance we lean in at the end. Then, like every true marathoner we deliriously wrap ourselves in a foil blanket and stumble towards some water and the nearest couch. It’s a gorgeous way to spend some time. It’s a way to really feel alive, if you know how to do it right. You have to stay focused.

You have to stay focused on the food.

I’m going to give you some tips for holding center, during these busy weeks. These are not baking or cooking tips, per se, but they are survival tips for anyone stressing around the kitchen with timers and menus, and a slew of newly required dietary restrictions.

These tips are essentially for anyone, whether you’ll be wearing stretch pants alone with the dog, or perhaps the cat, or surrounded by bipedal loved ones. Needless to say, as far as the holidays go, the experiences are varied. Get ready, get stretched. Now, let’s go with these essential pointers for this, the first leg of the holidays journey.

Tip 1: Never feed the crowd upfront. In the interest of world peace, make them work for it.

Let them arrive. Stay focused but pleasant. For at least an hour serve no food, but plenty of drinks. By the time they hit the table, your loved ones will be unable to say anything, much less something political. If by chance yours is sober home, replace the alcoholic drinks with teas or hot cider, the key is to gently starve the room so when they arrive at the table, the urge to speak is subdued.

Tip 2: Remember, everything you serve is delicious.

Don’t take anything anyone too young, too old, or anything a teenager says about your food (unless it is glowing praise), at face value. Most of the people who love you have underdeveloped or withered tastebuds. Most of the people you love are people you love, not food critics. Your love makes everything delicious. Stick to that story.

Tip 3: Make what you love. Make very little.

Few of us actually have the time and energy to execute that perfect meal. Have your loved ones make and bring their favorite food to the table. Say something like, “I’ll take care of the main dish. Bring whatever you love to share.” Encouragement is easy. Teamwork is everything. It’s time to drop the role of being the holiday martyr and time to get inspired by “Go, team, go.” Even if your loved ones are terrible cooks, invite them into the process. No one says you have to eat every side dish.

Tip 4: Enjoy the Evolution.

Tradition. It’ a big word and I like it. But I also like words like “reality.” If you find yourself having a vegan at the table —embrace it. Don’t shame them. Don’t get caught up on this idea that holidays are purely centered around animal sacrifice. I know, that’s a hard one to take, but your job is to enjoy the evolution. Anyway, it means more turkey for you. Now if you’re the vegan and your family wants to avoid your Tofurkey, don’t go running after them with it. Let the smile on your face as you eat your meatless meal serve as your marketing.

Tip 5: Gobble Till You Wobble

I was in my old neighborhood in New York City the other day. I went to one of my absolute favorite places, the Ukrainian eatery, Veselka. After I finished my very custom breakfast choice of borscht and potato pancakes, I got the check. Tucked inside the check holder was a printed piece of paper. On one side it advertised the many ways to help them support their people and on the other they were selling their holiday catering services. Their slogan: Gobble Till You Wobble almost brought a tear to my eye. The next line, “Get your fat pants ready.” almost had me sobbing, because it was the permission I needed to finally ditch my idea that Thanksgiving means a cute skirt, a somewhat nice outfit. I realize now that as the quintessential American holiday, I have a God-given right to wear elastic pants.

The tips I’ve shared today have little to do with actual baking and everything to do with the culture of food. Set the tone around you, and all will fall into place. Love the day and yourself, and stress over nothing. You are not Julia Child, nor are you Gordon Ramsay. You’re not a culinary performer. You're definitely not Anthony Bourdain, although you could channel a little bit of him if you find yourself in need of a loving way to tell someone to make their own brussel sprouts next year.

The holidays are upon us. Time to set our intentions, time to thrive in our fat pants.

In the meantime, here are some links for you to prep yourself and enjoy this week. I’ll write again soon from my own adventures. I just thought that this week we all might need to get our focus set.

* If I could have a crush on a flour company, it would be King Arthur. Take a look at their seasoned bread, perfect for stuffing, or for sandwiches the next day.

* My mother’s lasagna is a tradition. Apparently there is a Case for Pasta at Thanksgiving.

* Garlic bread may not be a tradition taken from the Mayflower, but who doesn’t want to have some?

* Pumpkin cornbread?? I had no idea it was a thing, and yet, it makes perfect sense.

* Economizing on table space? Put the cranberries in your cornbread and voila.