By The week after Clarence's funeral. The house is quiet the way houses are quiet after death — not the normal quiet of a Tuesday evening, but the loud quiet, the quiet that has weight, the quiet that sits in the room like a person who won't leave. I've been through this quiet before. After Willie James. After Michael. After Earl. After Bernice. And now after Clarence. The quiet is familiar. The familiar doesn't make it easier.
Baby Michael doesn't know about quiet. He is four months old and his volume is set to one setting: present. He babbles. He shrieks. He makes sounds that are either words forming or weather systems developing inside his tiny chest. Kayla brought him Saturday for our sacred morning, and he sat in his carrier and he announced himself to the kitchen the way he announces himself to every room — loudly, joyfully, with the complete confidence of a person who has never been told that the world is anything other than a place designed for his entertainment.
He is the antidote to the quiet. I held him and I made grits with one hand — Kayla hovering, certain I was going to drop either the baby or the spoon — and I stirred and I bounced him and he looked at the steam rising from the pot and his eyes got wide. The steam fascinated him. Everything fascinates him. The world is new and every part of it is a miracle, and I envy him that, the ability to see a pot of grits and find it miraculous. I have made ten thousand pots of grits in my life. But through his eyes — through the eyes of a four-month-old who has never seen steam — the grits are magical. The ordinary is magical. The routine is a revelation.
I need that right now. I need the revelation. I need the baby who doesn't know about Clarence or cancer or the dwindling list of Williams siblings. I need the eyes that see steam and find it wonderful. I need the sound that fills the quiet. I need Michael.
The garden needs planting soon. March is coming. The seeds are waiting. The earth is warming. And I am here, between a brother's funeral and a spring garden, between grief and growth, between the quiet of the dead and the noise of the living, holding a baby in one arm and a spoon in the other, which is how I have always been: in between. In between and cooking.
Now go on and feed somebody.
The grits were for the moment — for bouncing Michael on my hip and watching steam rise and letting him show me the miracle of it. But the granola is what I made ahead, the Saturday before Kayla came, because I knew we’d need something warm and easy and fragrant when she arrived with the baby, something that smelled like a morning worth waking up for. Orange and almond. It fills the kitchen with a smell that cuts right through the quiet. I’ve been making it for years, and I’ll be making it for years more — for every sacred morning, for every guest who needs feeding, for every baby who deserves to smell something good when he walks through the door.
Orange & Almond Granola
Prep Time: 10 minutes | Cook Time: 30 minutes | Total Time: 40 minutes | Servings: 8
Ingredients
- 3 cups old-fashioned rolled oats
- 1 cup sliced raw almonds
- 1/4 cup raw sunflower seeds
- 1/2 teaspoon fine sea salt
- 1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
- 1/3 cup pure maple syrup
- 1/4 cup coconut oil, melted
- 1 tablespoon fresh orange zest (from about 1 large orange)
- 1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
- 1/2 cup dried cranberries or golden raisins (added after baking)
Instructions
- Preheat the oven. Heat your oven to 325°F. Line a large rimmed baking sheet with parchment paper and set aside.
- Mix the dry ingredients. In a large bowl, combine the rolled oats, sliced almonds, sunflower seeds, sea salt, and cinnamon. Stir until evenly mixed.
- Combine the wet ingredients. In a small bowl or measuring cup, whisk together the maple syrup, melted coconut oil, orange zest, and vanilla extract until fully combined.
- Coat the oats. Pour the wet mixture over the dry ingredients and stir well, making sure every oat and almond is coated. Spread the mixture in an even layer on the prepared baking sheet.
- Bake low and slow. Bake for 28 to 32 minutes, stirring once halfway through, until the granola is golden and fragrant. Watch closely in the last few minutes — it can go from golden to burnt quickly.
- Cool completely. Remove from the oven and let the granola cool on the baking sheet without stirring — this is what creates clusters. It will crisp up as it cools.
- Add the dried fruit. Once fully cooled, scatter the dried cranberries or raisins over the granola and toss gently to combine.
- Store or serve. Serve over yogurt, with cold milk, or by the handful straight from the jar. Store in an airtight container at room temperature for up to two weeks.
Nutrition (per serving)
Calories: 310 | Protein: 7g | Fat: 15g | Carbs: 39g | Fiber: 4g | Sodium: 120mg