Year seven begins. And baby, I want to start this year the way I start every year: in the garden, on my knees, with dirt under my fingernails and Cherokee Purple seedlings in the ground and the marsh smell coming through the morning air like a love letter from the Lowcountry itself.
The garden is getting easier. Not the work — the work is the same, the kneeling and the digging and the staking — but the grief in the garden has softened. Earl's garden is still Earl's garden. His raised beds, his design, his legacy in soil and wood. But it's also mine now. I've been tending it alone for three years, and the vegetables that come out of it are mine, planted by my hands, watered by my hose, talked to by my voice. Earl built the garden. I am the garden now.
The book continues to sell — 4,500 copies, Caroline told me this week. Not a bestseller by any measure, but a steady, quiet presence on shelves across the Southeast. She said independent bookstores are the ones driving it — the small shops, the ones where the owner reads every book and recommends them personally. My book lives in small stores, recommended by women who read it and thought of their grandmothers. That's the audience I wrote for. That's exactly right.
Kayla and Devon are deep in wedding planning. The church is booked — First African Baptist, April 2024, two years from now. The venue is the only easy decision. Everything else — the dress, the food, the flowers, the guest list — is a negotiation between Kayla's vision (elegant, intimate), Devon's vision (simple, affordable), and Denise's vision (enormous, expensive, involving a tent). I stay out of it. My job is the food. The food is the only thing I will not delegate, compromise on, or discuss.
Made cornbread tonight in the skillet. The first cornbread of year seven. Year one cornbread and year seven cornbread are the same cornbread. That's the beauty and the terror of tradition: nothing changes except everything around it.
Now go on and feed somebody.
The cornbread I made tonight reminded me of what I reach for every time I need something plain and true — bread that asks nothing of you and gives everything back. Finnish Flatbread is like that. Same skillet, same hands, same kitchen that Earl and I shared for thirty years, and now mine alone. I’ve been making this one on the nights when I want to be close to something simple and quiet, and tonight — the first night of year seven — felt like exactly that kind of night.
Finnish Flatbread
Prep Time: 10 minutes | Cook Time: 20 minutes | Total Time: 30 minutes | Servings: 8
Ingredients
- 2 cups all-purpose flour
- 1 tablespoon baking powder
- 1 teaspoon salt
- 1 teaspoon sugar
- 3/4 cup whole milk
- 1 large egg
- 2 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted, plus more for the skillet
- 1 tablespoon fresh or dried herbs (optional — rosemary or thyme work well)
Instructions
- Preheat and prep. Preheat your oven to 400°F. Place a 10-inch cast-iron skillet in the oven while it heats — you want the pan hot when the batter goes in.
- Mix the dry ingredients. In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, baking powder, salt, and sugar until evenly combined.
- Add the wet ingredients. Make a well in the center of the dry ingredients. Add the milk, egg, and melted butter. Stir until just combined — a few lumps are fine. Do not overmix or the bread will toughen.
- Fold in herbs (optional). If using herbs, fold them gently into the batter with a spatula.
- Prepare the skillet. Carefully remove the hot skillet from the oven and add a small pat of butter, swirling to coat the bottom and sides. Pour the batter in evenly — it will sizzle at the edges, which is what you want.
- Bake. Return the skillet to the oven and bake for 18 to 22 minutes, until the top is golden and a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean.
- Rest and slice. Let the flatbread rest in the skillet for 5 minutes before slicing into wedges. Serve warm with butter, or alongside whatever you’re feeding people tonight.
Nutrition (per serving)
Calories: 158 | Protein: 4g | Fat: 4g | Carbs: 25g | Fiber: 1g | Sodium: 318mg