hygge – One Rabbit Riot

Driving home on a cloudy, rainy Sunday a wash of bright, sunshine-yellow that burst upon the landscape once I got within my hometown’s county. A golden, almost firey shrubbery that dotted the yards of homes near and far. But what is this? This long-forgotten friend that signals spring, the forsythia.

At first, I thought this was a local plant, potentially a Pennsylvanian cherry blossom? But actually, I learned that forsythia originates from Eastern Asia and Eastern Europe. I wonder what brought them here? Maybe the simple beauty or immigrant communities from Eastern Europe who came to Beaver County brought a sense of home? That would be cool.

Since I moved from home, I think my springs have been colored with different shades of spring. The crocus, the daffodil, and when May creeps in, the rhododendron (a tongue twister). I look at photos and videos with wanderlust of the Sakura and forget my local splendor, the forsythia.

I didn’t realize how much I missed those beautiful golden blossoms until I saw them again. It was a welcome call, a return to normalcy to a world of childhood that felt like a warm hug. As I mentioned before in Easter Traditions and Celebrating the Resurrection there isn’t a lot of familiarity in my holidays anymore, but this, it felt like a moment stuck in time.

This wasn’t the only familiar sight of the weekend. I went home and got to give my parents hugs, and my family dog snuggles, and ate a new little tradition – thumbprint cookies from My Sweet Lily. My mom and Scott (who I’m referring to when I say my parents) travel down to Pittsburgh’s Strip District each Easter season to get a ham at Wholey’s Market and make another stop. To a bakery that sells dairy-free confections of creme-filled pastries called lady locks and these cookies called thumbprints, rolled in sprinkles with a dollop of icing on top.

This variety with the frosting, is incredibly sweet, vibrantly colored, and sort of stomach ache-inducing but I love them and choose to indulge in their sweetness once a year. I’ve had these cookies with jam and with a chocolate ganache, which is splendidly rich. I was curious where these cookies originated from and they are an Americanized version of the Swedish hallongrotta cookie. The name hallongrottor translates to raspberry cave, as these cookies are traditionally served with raspberry jam filling the depression in the top of the cookie.

Today we have a familiar friend visiting our basement, rainwater. Oh rainwater, flowing into the basement and making the journey to the washing machine an adventure of tiny stream crossings. I’m trying to be patient and accept that this Spring is going to be a rainy one, just like the rainy winter we had and it will pass. The basement will dry out.

Meanwhile, the rain is kind of calming, gentle, and cozy on this April day. I can’t believe it’s April already and I’m so excited. I’ve been designing up a storm for summer and I can’t wait to share it with you. ❤

Whenever I am feeling a bit glum, I think of baking. I learned this from my Grandma. Her mom, who lost her parents at a young age and grew up quite poor would make herself “feel” rich by baking a cake.

I think this is such a sweet sentiment to hold because baking is something you can do with a little money or a lot of money. You can make something for yourself for a little pick me up or can brighten someone else’s day. It is shareable, communal, and made with love.

Baking is a moment of connection for me. A connection through the generations. So much about our present world is different from what it has been in the past, except for food. Food bridges those time gaps.

It even bridges distance and time. As I baked last Monday evening, on the other end of the phone my sister-in-law had just finished baking her own cookies and was making dinner. It was like we were together in a shared experience.

Mixing, resting, rolling. The process of rolling the dough to a thin layer, dunking the shaped cutter in flour, and pressing a new image into the dough was timeless. I could have been four or fourteen or thirty and made these cookies with my mom. We always did every year, every Christmas time. I sent her pictures of the cookies and we reminisced about years past.

The dough, the cookie dough reminds me of meals at Eat’n Park and their free smiley cookies. It’s childhood, cozy in a bite. It makes me feel rich in memories and moments spent with people I love.

Baking is my cozy corner of retreat, cut-out cookies my warm fuzzy blanket. I think that is what makes The Great British Bake Off irresistible. What a wonderful place of solace in a gloomy world.

Thank you, dear reader, for spending time with me today. I wish you love and comfort wherever you are.