Hefe und Vanillinzucker

Day 207: Hefe und Vanillinzucker

When someone dies - someone whom you wanted to know better, someone you liked and respected, someone about your age - it's a sad thing. Sad because of everything that person might have accomplished. Sad for that person's family, her spouse, her friends and co-workers. Sad because it reminds you that you are dying too.

When someone dies, it's a time to sit outdoors on a warm autumn evening. Time to watch the bats fly at dusk. Time to listen to the crickets and the tree frogs. Time to count the stars as they emerge. It's a time to feel the rain in the air and smell the leaves as they turn.

It's a time to appreciate your husband, and your daughter, and your son. Your parents, your siblings, your friends, your co-workers. Even your dog, who greets you cheerfully, day in and day out, without fail.  It's a time to appreciate your house, and your neighborhood, and your garden. To be thankful for clean water gushing from the tap, for central heat, for vaccinations and food on the table. 

To say, I love you.

Goodbye, hefe, vanillinzucker, gelatin and backpulver. I'm not exactly sure what you are, and you probably aren't active anyway. You've been in the cupboard for fifteen years. Nicole Hinkel, au pair #2, baked with you, and I couldn't bring myself to throw you away. You are food, after all.

Blessings upon this household, where we have enough vanilla extract, baking powder, baking soda and Knox gelatin, to make understanding these foreign baking goods unnecessary.

Blessings upon us all, as we step carefully along the short path from birth to death.