In Praise of the Ordinary.
Bits of dried Montmorency cherries stick to the kitchen shears in my right hand as I snip about half a cup into smaller pieces for the batch of mocha cherry almond granola that’s baking at a warm 325 degrees. My fingers are sticky and I resist the temptation to lick them clean (this batch of granola is for sale. Mustn’t put the customers off). We’re in between summer and winter farmers’ markets, with a two-week break, and it’s always good to stay ahead on inventory. Because we make flavors in small batches, certain ones sell out quickly, almost guaranteeing that we won’t have every flavor available all the time. But if a customer asks, we’ll make what she wants, sell her a bag or two and tuck the rest away for the next Saturday’s offerings. So far, it’s a system that works without taxing the kitchen staff.
I started and ended my day baking, filling the space in between with roasting the last of the summer squash and then cleaning the bathroom before heading over to our friends’ place an hour away for a scrumptious sliders sammich bar and belated birthday celebrations with their two young girls. Time spent with them is always—always—good, and the sunny autumn day enveloping us made it that much better. We cooked together, romped in their back yard with the two “loaner” dogs they were watching for some friends, and watched the “Pastry Week” episode of The Great British Baking Show until Jen pushed the pause button to serve up spiced crunch-top apple cake with her homemade caramel sauce, alongside Claire’s first batch of pumpkin chocolate chip cookies (that are also excellent with a spoonful of that same caramel sauce). Yes, I realize I’m writing a lot about food at the moment. My apologies to the keto folks in the reading audience or anyone just starting the Atkins plan. I can move the reflection in a more low-carb, low-cal direction.
On our way home, I felt that familiar hunger for putting my feet on the field paths while the sun was still two hands above the horizon line. It didn’t take long to unpack the car, put away the leftovers Jen and Russell sent home with us, change into my chicken boots and head down the slope from the front deck into the mouth of the meadow. The kittens bounced along behind me for a few yards before racing ahead to find adventures of their own along the creek banks. They’d disappear and reappear at semi-regular intervals, and follow the sound of my voice if we lost sight if each other. They’re dear little fur balls and sturdy walking companions.
As we crunched along through the brown and curled sycamore leaves, I couldn’t get over how simple and plain this day felt. No emotional peaks and valleys, nor physical ones from some long overdue farm chore. Just granola, sliders and TV with people we love, a sunset walk beneath reliable blue skies and trees, and more granola. Steady, I think to myself. Some would say average or ordinary, and I’d be ok with that too. It’s these calmer days that I sometimes forget to appreciate or even notice, surrounded as we are by the language of the superlative experience. Headlines lure us in with “stunning”, “jaw-dropping”, and the overused “amazing”, and all I learn when I read further is that some folks get there much sooner than I would have. The unremarkable goes, well, unremarked.
But it’s so essential, my friends, to set that bar at a height that we can scale without injury—physical, emotional, or spiritual. When we expect a home run nearly every time we’re at the plate, we lose an appreciation for a well-executed single that keeps the inning going. Don’t worry—the no-hitters and grand slams come along too and it’s thrilling when we’re there to gather those moments into our open and awestruck mouths. Let’s just remember to make room for the common, the steady, the normal inhaling and exhaling rhythms that give us a solid place to land, and a grounding from which to stretch and reach beyond once in a while.
Here’s to granola and friends and borrowed dogs and nothing too flashy.
Sleep well, dear ones.
