Maple Butter Cookies

The Nordic Ski team filed off of our yellow school bus and stepped out onto the snow covered parking lot. Several beginners, including myself, having not yet purchased our own equipment trudged up the hill to the rental shop. The cabin was small and quaint, a warm fire burned in the fireplace standing in the center of the room and the walls were lined with long wooden benches. The owner fitted us each with our own pair of skate skis and poles and, after tucking our bags beneath the wooden benches, we headed back out into the frosty air to meet up with the rest of our team.

We circled up and as our coaches discussed the plans for the day I took a moment to look over my equipment. Black wrist straps hung from the tops of my poles each with a large and small hole. Strap with small hole on the right goes with left hand, I thought to myself as I stuffed my gloved hand through the strap. This was my first time.

"V1, V2, V2 Alt. ..." One coach listed the different techniques we would be working on today and I leaned onto my poles, sliding my skis back and forth. It seemed easy enough.

We split into two groups: those who had skied for the team last year, and those who had not. The returnees wished us luck and glided off to the trails. I watched the rhythm and grace of their strides in anxious anticipation. 

When our moment came I stood tall on my skis, lifted my poles, and slid one ski forward. The other ski followed and it slipped out from under me sending me crashing to the cold snow. I stood up and tried again, and again, but the rhythm and motion that had appeared so easy and natural, just did not come.

While the others skied off onto the trails I stayed behind in the open field to work on my technique and to inevitably fall many more times. By the time the coaches called us over to pack up I was exhausted and still an embarrassingly poor skier.

Gingerbread Cake

As a kid, I couldn't stand PB&J sandwiches. How did I survive my childhood? Simple. My mom drizzled molasses on my peanut butter sandwiches. It wasn't uncommon to find the molasses dripping out from the sides of the sandwich, and on some days come lunch time my sandwich bag would be a sticky, black mess; but I loved those peanut butter and molasses sandwiches nonetheless. And though I eventually moved on to other sandwich fixings, my affinity for the dark, sticky syrup has never diminished.

While baking this gingerbread cake I helped myself to spoonfuls of molasses . Sweet yet bitter, earthy yet smooth, blackstrap molasses has a complex and intriguing flavor that is not lost on this cake. The molasses, cinnamon, ginger, and cloves blend together and compliment each other so nicely that the resulting gingerbread seems like its own unique spice or flavor, than the combination of many.

As the cake came together the smell of gingerbread filled our kitchen and warmed my soul. The sweet, spiced aroma of gingerbread was enveloping and, like hearing a familiar song you haven't listened to in a while, it filled me with nostalgia.

Continuing the tradition that she had with her grandmother, my mom baked molasses cookies with my sister and I each year at Christmas when we were younger. We haven't made the cookies in a few years now and the tradition had slipped from my mind, but the smell of gingerbread in the oven reminded me of rolling out the soft, dark brown dough, cutting out christmas trees and santa clause, as well as a slightly less festive assortment of dinosaurs and dog bones.