About this time last year, I became very aware of a grief that I carried in my soul. The central source of the grief was a lie about myself that had been engraved on my heart. For months, I ignored any true feelings and lived my life in a state of denial. Obviously, I wasn’t ready to work with the grief yet, but I knew that anger was around the corner and was going to be disastrous when it finally hit.
It was early July when the anger arrived, and with it, a list of 45 reasons of why. Loss and pain in black ink on a lined white page.
Quickly, it became apparent that I needed a project to turn my grief into something productive. I chose a recipe and got to work.
I measured, folded, smoothed, chilled. Layer after layer. Butter, dough, butter, dough. Emotions escaped as I pounded and rolled cold pastry into a rectangle, wider and wider, my bamboo tapered rolling pin leaving rounded impressions on the dough as I transferred sad thought after sad thought to the dough mat.
Triangles of dough were carefully rolled, tucked within themselves, and baked until they were golden brown. Once cooled, my fingers dug into their crust, breaking the glossy exterior into a million shards. Exactly the way I felt.