2 cups measure 4 measure GF all-purpose flour

2 tsp baking powder

2 tsp, salt (kosher or less if sea salt)

1 cup sugar

(1) lemon, zested

4 oz. crystallized/candied ginger, finally chopped and tossed with 1 tsp neutral oil, separate pieces with fingers

8 oz. fresh cranberries, roughly chopped

3 oz. walnut halves, roughly chopped small

1 cup sour cream or yogurt (full fat/whole milk)

1/2 cup whole milk

2 large eggs, beaten

half stick salted Euro-style butter (like Kerrygold), melted and cooled

METHOD

Preheat oven to 350 degrees

Combine and whisk dry ingredients

Combine and whisk wet ingredients

Add cranberries to dry, combine

Add walnuts to dry, combine

Add wet to dry gently combine

Add gingered, gently combine

Fill prepared muffins cups (sprayed with oil or line with paper) 3/4 way

Bake on middle rack for 20-30 minutes until fork comes out clean.

(Makes approximately 24 regular sized muffins)

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1. Take My Name but Say It Slow, Thomas Dai (https://tertulia.com/book/take-my-name-but-say-it-slow-essays-thomas-dai/9781324066378)

1. https://jessicadore.substack.com/p/offering-february-2025?utm_source=post-email-title&publication_id=390088&post_id=155682090&utm_campaign=email-post-title&isFreemail=true&r=1oef8u&triedRedirect=true&utm_medium=email

   1. In her recent paper on shared grief, philosopher Louise Richardson reviews some of the objects philosophers have suggested might be the thing that we grieve when we’re grieving. For Colin Murray Parkes it was an “assumptive world” that one grieves. For Peter Marris, a “construction of reality.” For James Gillies and Robert Neimeyer, the object of grief is a particular “meaning structure.” For Michael Cholbi, the thing we grieve when we’re grieving is the “loss of a relationship with someone on whom one’s practical identity depended.¹”

It is liquid and explosive, the chaos of leaves and rivers, mountains of lava, fecund and overflowing. (p.20)

We were moving, as adrienne maree brown says, at the speed of trust. (p.182)

...if we cannot understand our own ambivalence, if we do not know how to listen with precision, and delicacy and susceptibility to the whispers of our bodies and hearts and souls, then how can we ever, even for a moment, listen to anybody else's? (p.186)

...there are no words that can match what it means to put a millennium of violence onto the body of someone who took the risk of loving you. (p.190)

Someone once told me that there is no such thing as apology, there are only amends, and to amend something doesn't mean to change it, it means to add to the record. You can never erase the record. What you can add to the record is new behavior. The old behavior is an entire lifetime of indoctrination. The new behavior is an entire life of practice. (p.190)

This is what words are to me. The sound of us trying. (p.195)

They say you have to let go of the past in order to heal. But what is the past is now? Forever and ever now? What if by healing one moment, you can heal all the moments that ever were and ever are to come? (p.225)

Once, when she was back in town for a few months and we were remembering to love each other again she said... (p.227)

Maybe everything is worth crying over if you spend enough time with it. (p.231)

We heard the ceaseless churning, swaying and running, clattering and collapsing, and we called it weather. We only knew of it as weather, weather was all our brains had been trained to understand. Weather was temporary. Weather could be waited out. The origins of weather had nothing to do with us, we were not responsible for weather. Our only task with weather was to deal with it, to put on the proper gear and tough it out. (p.237)

Note: this could definitely be a more diverse list. Who else should be included?

She edited out useless distractions. She cherished the small moments, which are the sweetest.

Every action was done with care. Every day was filled with precise and brilliant actions.

She bought a lemon.

She mailed a letter.

She wrapped a package.

Sara had found her time.

Sara had found HERSELF.

-Hildegard von Bingen