She became a frame for the picture that was her son and daughter.
Erica BauermeisterTags: parenting
i think love is like..waves.. you ride one in to the beach, and it's the most amazing thing you've ever felt. but at some point the water goes back out, it has to. and maybe you're lucky--maybe you're both too busy to do anything drastic. maybe you're good as friends, so you stay. and then something happens--maybe it's something as big as a baby, or as small as him unloading the dishwasher--and the wave comes back in again. and it does that, over and over. i just think sometimes people forget to wait.
Erica Bauermeister...the day coming to her in small, liquid moments, sleep slipping into wakefulness like the slow merging of two steams.
p 125
You can be broken, or broken open. That choice is yours.
p 146
about dealing with the loss of her mother
... the results of the irrevocable decisions in her life, the commitments she had leaped into without thought, with only the sure and perfect knowledge that it mattered not where her feet landed because her heart was certain.
p 186
We’re all just ingredients. What matters is the grace with which you cook the meal.
Erica BauermeisterTags: inspirational food food-lit
Rituals, Al Decided, were a lot like numbers; they offered a comforting solidity in the otherwise chaotic floodtide of life. But it was more than that. A ritual was a way to hold time - not freezing it, rather the opposite, warming it through the touch of your imagination.
Erica BauermeisterTags: rituals
Stories of her children when they were small, their round little bodies barely containing their personalities, which bloomed and glittered and melted into her.
Erica BauermeisterTags: children
It was interesting. Isabelle thought, the children that chose you. Some come through your body; others came in cars in the middle of the night.
Erica BauermeisterTags: children
She looked at the produce stalls, a row of jewels in a case, the colors more subtle in the winter, a Pantone display consisting only of greens, without the raspberries and plums of summer, the pumpkins of autumn. But if anything, the lack of variation allowed her mind to slow and settle, to see the small differences between the almost-greens and creamy whites of a cabbage and a cauliflower, to wake up the senses that had grown lazy and satisfied with the abundance of the previous eight months. Winter was a chromatic palate-cleanser, and she had always greeted it with the pleasure of a tart lemon sorbet, served in a chilled silver bowl between courses.
Erica BauermeisterTags: cooking winter senses the-seasons
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