By The second week of retirement and I have established a new routine, because without routine I will dissolve, and dissolution is not on the schedule. The routine: wake at six. Coffee. Crossword — in pen, always in pen. Marvin's breakfast. Writing from eight to ten — at the kitchen table, longhand, the journal Rebecca gave me filling with sentences that may or may not become a book but that are, for now, the practice of writing about the things that matter: Sylvia, Irving, the Bronx, the challah, the chain. Ten to noon: cooking, whatever needs cooking, the prep work and the production and the daily business of feeding. Noon: lunch with Marvin. Afternoon: the caregiving hours, the walks (when Marvin can walk), the television (when Marvin needs television), the sitting together (when Marvin needs presence). Gloria comes Monday, Wednesday, Friday mornings. The rest is me.
Father's Day is Sunday and David came, and the visit was different this year — not the usual Father's Day visit but a visit colored by the fact that I am home now, permanently, and the home-ness changes the dynamic, because David has been worrying about two things for four years (Marvin's care and my ability to manage it alongside teaching), and one of those things has been resolved, and the resolution is visible in his shoulders, which are lower, and his jaw, which is less clenched, and his voice, which is softer. "You look rested, Mom," he said. I said, "I'm not rested. I'm differently tired." He laughed. Different tiredness is still tiredness, but the quality has changed: teaching-tired was the tiredness of performance, of standing, of projecting. Caregiving-tired is the tiredness of patience, of sitting, of absorbing. Different muscles. Same exhaustion. But only one job now, not two, and one is survivable.
I made brisket for Father's Day. The brisket for David, for Irving, for Marvin. The three fathers. The brisket is the same. The fathers are different. The love is the same. The brisket holds it.
I have been making brisket for decades and I know what it needs alongside it: something plain, something that absorbs, something that doesn’t compete. Skillet cornbread is that thing — golden at the edges, soft in the middle, the kind of bread that sits quietly next to whatever is carrying the weight of the meal. David took two pieces. Marvin ate his slowly, with butter, the way he always has. That’s enough. That’s everything.
Skillet Cornbread
Prep Time: 10 minutes | Cook Time: 20 minutes | Total Time: 30 minutes | Servings: 8
Ingredients
- 1 cup yellow cornmeal
- 1 cup all-purpose flour
- 1/4 cup granulated sugar
- 1 tablespoon baking powder
- 1/2 teaspoon salt
- 1 cup whole milk
- 2 large eggs
- 1/4 cup unsalted butter, melted, plus 1 tablespoon for the skillet
Instructions
- Preheat and prepare. Preheat oven to 425°F. Place a 10-inch cast iron skillet in the oven while it heats so the pan gets good and hot.
- Mix dry ingredients. In a large bowl, whisk together the cornmeal, flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt until evenly combined.
- Mix wet ingredients. In a separate bowl or large measuring cup, whisk together the milk, eggs, and melted butter.
- Combine. Pour the wet ingredients into the dry ingredients and stir just until combined — a few lumps are fine. Do not overmix.
- Heat the skillet. Carefully remove the hot skillet from the oven and add the remaining tablespoon of butter, swirling to coat the bottom and sides. The butter should sizzle immediately.
- Bake. Pour the batter into the hot skillet and return it to the oven. Bake for 18–22 minutes, until the top is golden and a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean.
- Rest and serve. Let the cornbread rest in the skillet for 5 minutes before slicing into wedges. Serve warm with butter.
Nutrition (per serving)
Calories: 230 | Protein: 5g | Fat: 9g | Carbs: 32g | Fiber: 1g | Sodium: 280mg