Sally Huggins Toner

Mark sent a text to our family chat today with two old Halloween pictures. Our townhouse development is setting up candy tables in the carports with individually wrapped bars properly socially distanced. It’s a far cry from the days of these photos, where the children and parents of the cluster would gather at the playground and stack a table with cupcakes, cookies, cold cuts, before we all set out en masse from house to house. I have no doubt this new version will also be legendary–something kids from other neighborhoods travel to upon word of mouth, or, in this case, word of the keyboard. Still, it’s not the same. And neither are we, Mark and I. Officially empty nesters, we sit in a spookily quiet house, in our individual studies separated by three sets of stairs. The vertical nature of our home’s construction makes the distance wider. Once upon a time, it was just enough space for all four of us to go to our corners after a melt down. We craved the quiet. 

When the girls were little, one source of Halloween stress was often the costume. Aimee, the planner, the visual and auditory artist, angsted over her decision. Our little Libra weighed the pros and cons with meticulous detail. “Do I wear the paleontologist field jacket? But then I’ll get my stuffed triceratops dirty. It’s supposed to be exactly 48 degrees at seven p.m.. That means I’ll have to wear a turtleneck underneath my Tinkerbell costume. That won’t look right. Wait, is it supposed to rain? Maybe I can wear a stuffed silver trash bag and go as a Hershey’s Kiss. That way, I can wear my windbreaker underneath with the hood…”

Sara was an entirely different story. Just as much planning would go into the purchase and/or construction of her costume. But, invariably, she would change her mind about what she wanted to be on the morning of the 31st. Of course, we would have been the worst parents ever if we had told the other parents in the neighborhood, “No, at 8 a.m. before school, she’s going to dig through the 23 yr old costumes my little sisters gave me for dress up because that’s how she do…” That just wouldn’t fly. So every year, we went through the same routine. I kid you not, this started at just over ten months old when, in early October, she grabbed a duck costume (the one in picture A) off of the rack (yes, she was walking and talking at 10 months) and demanded that I put it on her. She toddled around the store for the next 20 minutes going, “KACK, KACK, DUCK, KACK, KACK. DUCK…” Like I said, she was already talking. So I called Mark on the cell and told him to pack away the pumpkin costume we had ready.

Halloween also falls at the end of my teaching quarter. This year, as wacky as it has been, is no different. So I bid adieu to my five classes of icons Thursday and Friday anticipating the emails I always get over this weekend. “Ms. Toner, can I still turn in…Ms. Toner, is there anything I can do to…”

I’ll be honest. My answer has usually been yes in past years, and, this year, it most definitely is. (Cue ten more emails from students who might be reading my blog…who am I kidding?) I have used the word “grace” a lot this year. Grace I’m giving my students. Grace I’m trying to give myself in adjusting to life in quarantine, life without children in the house, life having to teach this way. Grace I’m trying to give the man I love and live with. We’re navigating this normal that is new on so many levels as best we can. A baseball season, albeit short, helped. But then we remembered that, this time last year, we sat in the rain at Nats stadium and watched them take the Series. We stuffed our faces with fries to stay warm and danced in the streets. We went to a parade…a PARADE for Christ sake, downtown that Saturday. Cheered until we were hoarse.

Again, grace. Patience with the quiet. 

The flat circle that time has become has offered me another bit of personal reinvention. While I have loved to cook for my entire adult life, I’ll confess that baking always terrified me. First of all, I believed my mother, another cook more than baker, who always said that there is enough delicious bread to be purchased. The time and mess in doing it yourself isn’t worth it. Plus, I’m just not an exact person. I am NOT good at numbers, and I always assumed baking took a precision in that regard that just isn’t enjoyable to me.

Then my daughter’s boyfriend baked some no knead dough in my Dutch oven, and the reinvention began. It was REALLY friggin’ good. It didn’t seem that difficult to do. So I tried the New York Times recipe. My pot already had the grease stains seared into it from a 450 degree oven, so why not?

I tried the recipe, and I failed miserably. It was way too flat. It tasted okay, but it was more focaccia than boule. I didn’t understand. I followed the recipe to the letter. I knew the yeast was alive. What was going on?

I started watching YouTube videos, and one of them had a piece of wisdom that changed my entire perspective. It was a tutorial on the no knead recipe, and the teacher was, first off, very reassuring. As he folded over his shaggy dough, scraping some of the flour cement from his fingers, manhandling the lump into a second bowl, he kept saying, “It’s going to be messy. And that’s okay. It’s going to get on your fingers. That’s okay too.” Then he said this: “Remember, baking is an art, not a science.”

That’s when my approach changed completely. Yes, I understand that temperature, moisture, yeast rising, folding to strengthen the crumb, all of these components are important. I also know that they can be adjusted, corrected. If my dough is too wet, I add a little flour. If it’s too dry, another tablespoon of water. I stop to enjoy the smell of the yeast blooming in a glass measuring cup of warm water, and I NEVER open an oven while it’s baking. (Another piece of advice from another YouTube video). I lift the lid from the Dutch oven before those last fifteen minutes, and, as a cousin said in a Facebook comment, it’s like Christmas morning.

I read some more recipes, watch some more videos. Find out how to take that rustic slow proofing recipe and create baguettes with a pizza stone and ice beneath it in a cast iron skillet. Then I find another recipe for biscuits. With vinegar, they can taste like buttermilk. 

I experiment, fail, then succeed. I give myself time, and grace, and the kitchen smells delicious. And, by the way, I pulled a Sara this year and decided on a costume at three p.m.. I took to my mask with markers, raided the coat closet, and traipsed around the neighborhood as a socially distanced Cat in the Hat. In the end, reinvention is an art, not a science.