Cinnamon Honey Butter -- The Day I Didn't Cook, But Needed Something Sweet

February 8, 2020. A Saturday. The phone rang at 6:14 in the morning, and I knew before I answered — the way you know when a phone rings before dawn that life is about to change. Marcus said, "Dad, she's here." Two words. She's here. And the world, which had been turning in one direction for sixty-one years, shifted on its axis, because "she" was Naomi, and Naomi was my granddaughter, and my granddaughter was here.

Seven pounds, two ounces. Twenty inches. Born at Baptist Memorial Hospital at 5:47 AM, which is the hour I used to wake up for the mail route, and the symmetry was not lost on me — the hour that used to mean work now meant something infinitely more important. Angela was exhausted and radiant, the way new mothers are, as if the body that just did the hardest thing it will ever do has decided to glow in celebration. Marcus was crying. I had never seen my son cry — not at his wedding, not at Denise's memorial, not once in thirty years — and the tears on his face were the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen, because they were the tears of a man who has just become a father, and fatherhood is the thing that makes men cry who never cry, because the vulnerability is total and the love is overwhelming and the combination breaks you open like a shoulder that's finally reached temperature.

I held her. The nurse placed Naomi in my arms and she was small — impossibly small, devastatingly small, the kind of small that makes a six-four, two-sixty man afraid to breathe because breathing might disturb this tiny, perfect creature — and I looked at her face and I saw Marcus and Angela and Rosetta and Mama and me and somewhere, in the particular set of her jaw, I saw Denise. I saw Denise in my granddaughter's face, and the seeing was a knife and a gift at the same time, because Denise is in the DNA, Denise is in the blood, Denise is in the family line that will carry her forward even though she couldn't carry herself, and this baby — this seven-pound, two-ounce baby named Naomi — is proof that love survives the death of the person who gave it.

I whispered to her: "Welcome to the family, baby girl. You're going to be something." The words I said to DeAndre when he was born. The words I will say to every grandchild who arrives, because the words are the blessing, and the blessing is the beginning, and the beginning is all a grandfather can give — the assurance that you are welcome, you are wanted, you are coming into something bigger than yourself.

Rosetta held her after me and wept without sound, the way Rosetta weeps — no drama, just water, the efficient grief-or-joy of a woman who has seen a thousand births in her nursing career and is overwhelmed by this one because this one is hers. This one is ours. This one is Naomi Johnson, daughter of Marcus and Angela, granddaughter of Earl and Rosetta, and the family tree has a new branch, and the branch is reaching toward light I can't see but trust is there.

I didn't cook today. I didn't smoke anything. I didn't tend any fire except the one in my chest, which was burning so hot and so bright that if you could have seen it from the outside, it would have looked like the sun.

I said I didn’t cook that day, and that’s true — I didn’t fire up the smoker, I didn’t stand over anything, I didn’t tend a single flame outside the one in my chest. But when Rosetta and I finally got home that night, the house felt too quiet for what had just happened, and I needed to do something with my hands. Something small. Something that didn’t require heat or patience, because I had given all my patience to that hospital waiting room and all my heat to loving that baby girl. This cinnamon honey butter is what I made — five minutes, no stove, nothing but soft butter and sweetness — and we spread it on whatever bread we had and sat at the kitchen table and talked about Naomi until midnight, because that’s what you do the night a new life arrives: you sit with the people you love, and you let the sweetness settle in.

Cinnamon Honey Butter

Prep Time: 5 minutes | Cook Time: None | Total Time: 5 minutes | Servings: 12

Ingredients

• 1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, softened to room temperature
• 3 tablespoons honey
• 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
• 1/4 teaspoon vanilla extract
• Pinch of salt (omit if using salted butter)

Instructions

1. Soften the butter. Make sure the butter is fully softened — leave it out at room temperature for at least 30 minutes. It should yield easily when pressed with a finger.
2. Combine ingredients. Place the softened butter in a small bowl. Add the honey, cinnamon, vanilla extract, and salt if using.
3. Mix until smooth. Using a fork or hand mixer on low, blend everything together until the mixture is fully combined, fluffy, and uniform in color. Scrape down the sides of the bowl as needed.
4. Taste and adjust. Taste the butter and add a touch more honey for sweetness or cinnamon for warmth, according to your preference.
5. Serve or store. Serve immediately on warm bread, biscuits, toast, or cornbread. To store, transfer to an airtight container or roll in plastic wrap into a log shape and refrigerate for up to 2 weeks, or freeze for up to 2 months.

Nutrition (per serving)

Calories: 85 | Protein: 0g | Fat: 8g | Carbs: 4g | Fiber: 0g | Sodium: 5mg