I wake before the sun. This isn't new for me, but I'm much more at peace with it these days. My apartment is quiet in the mornings. I walk her walls in silence as my arms brush her corners. As my bare feet learn the grooves of the floor. My eyes come into focus as they begin to understand the way the light falls through the glass. As they memorize the shapes and curves of this new furniture. We're still introducing ourselves to each other and I'm in love with the slow pace of our courtship.

My evenings are just as quiet. They simply exist in different light. When my day is finished I walk the short distance until my feet reach the sand. The beach is wide, and I savor every footstep; my eyes greedily taking in the horizon as I close in on the sea. I stop at the edge of the surf and setup my chair. Sometimes I read. Sometimes I revisit the words I've been writing for the last few months but haven't published. Because they're not ready yet. Because they're still mine. But mostly I watch the water. And the birds gliding across its surface. I watch the steady rhythm of each inhale and exhale of the ocean. The white crash as the waves spray salt upon my face. It feels good to be home.

My happiest moments as a girl were on these beaches. Swimming in these waters. The first time I met the sea was standing on the coast of California. Back when my sister still smiled. When my mother's love was undoubted. Our skin was dark from the sun. Our curls were wild and unruly and highlighted blond from long days on the water. This was back when we still laughed. This was back when every weekend was an adventure of how little money we could spend factored by how much fun we could have. We'd climb the roof of our apartment building until we could just barely see the drive-in movie screen in the distance. We'd tune the transistor radio to the AM station playing the audio as we unwrapped trophy bags of Sour Patch Kids and Twizzlers. I'd laugh at the wrong time of every punchline - too young to understand but desperate to belong. My mother and sister would soften their eyes and smile at each other during the sweet parts. I will never stop trying to return to those warm rooftops.

This city and this new apartment are my refuge. I was ready to come full circle. Perhaps back to where I always belonged despite all the seeking I've done. Despite all the living. Despite all the loving. Because he told me he loved me and I left anyways. I left anyways. So instead I'm living through the things that bring me life. Like fresh cut roses on my coffee table. And loose-leaf tea steeping in the morning. Sandalwood incense and singing bowls as the sun rises. Reading novel after novel as the day comes to an end. I am in love - I am obsessed - with these small moments. These little punctuations of life that make me whole. And if I ever lose those I know that I can return. I know that it will always be there. I know I will always have the sea.

I stand in the kitchen. My feet bare against the cool tile floor. The windows are opened wide, and a subtle breeze skims my skin with every sporadic movement of the wind. I remove the lid and the steam meets my face; my nostrils flare wide. I bring the soiled spoon to my lips to taste. Acid from the tomatoes. Fat and salt from the blend of beef and pork. Sofrito that has been cooked down to nothing and everything. The complexity of the wine that hasn’t fully cooked off yet.

I’ve been standing in this kitchen for 5 hours, slowly stirring. Gently swaying to the earthy rhythm of bossa nova while watching my dough rise before shaping it in my big, strong hands and rolling it out in long, careful gestures. The sneaky dusting of flour on every surface. The elegance of a french rolling pin. My weekends are often spent right here making things from scratch. Discovering new techniques and things about myself I never knew the previous day. I read. I study. I watch videos, but it’s not the same when you’re standing barefoot in the kitchen and let your instincts take over. Adding spices because it feels good, and because you have a longstanding love affair with a little heat. When you decide on different herbs simply because they make you smile that day. Adding the extra hunk of butter. Subbing water for stock or that dry cabernet. Always the extra garlic. Always.

I love to tell people that cooking for others is my love language. And it’s true, I promise. But the first love I nourish each day is my own. I don’t need a full Sunday. Every day is a celebration of life - and love - through eggs, through potatoes, through roasted vegetables, freshly baked bread, and ripe blackberries to sweeten the palette with dessert. Every day I write a love letter to myself, or if I’m lucky, to the friends and family who make it to my table. We sit in a circle with knife and fork and feed our bodies with everything we didn’t know we needed, and everything we did.

The last time I held a rolling pin in my hands was in her kitchen. The small space heated by the oven. Our bare feet on the linoleum despite the snow falling gently outside. Fingers sticky with butter and flour that lodged between every crack and wrinkle. My mother’s hands. Pushing and pulling and rolling into place. My mother’s hands. Thin like paper yet indestructible. Smiles on our faces. Her skin scented sweet with musk. My movements clumsy but learning. That would be the last time we would ever stand together and make this pie.

I come from a long line of women who bake. Women who have secrets not written down. Women who love through Sunday suppers and pie dough. The role this Apple Crumb Pie had in my childhood seems ridiculous when I think about it, but it was important. This pie was a big deal for all of us. Today I made it for the first time. Today, my home smells like that home. It’s amazing what some sliced apples and sugar and cinnamon can do to your soul.