I was once a baker. At 5 a.m. every day, I woke up, inserted my earbuds, and made joy with my hands.
“cake / cookies / muffins,” the business card said. “Organic Vegan Baking.” The project, as I’ll call it, was named La Pirata Kitchen—a nod to my loves of both pirates and that more poetic language in which words could be explicitly feminine. Though I’d always loved baking, it didn’t become an obsession, and then a business, until words, through which I had and still do make my living, began to make me restless. I needed to get on my feet, create something tangible and immediate.
My baker life lasted almost exactly one year and ended with my relationship to my partner of eleven years. Almost immediately, words called me back, words reminded me they too could work like flour, like sugar, and become much more.
I have a new life now, having moved to Brooklyn from Long Island, where I read in the mornings rather than bake, eat breakfast on the stoop, and drink much more than I should. It’s a life that feels sifted—airier, but with all the right parts of my past perfectly mixed.