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Quote by Deyth Banger

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Deyth Banger

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“I am not Seamus, who tacks emotions to the outside of his skin and whose words charge from his mouth on horseback. No one sees through me, except Xavier, and he does so not because I choose to give him access but because he knows himself. I will have to offer myself to Seamus, if I want something 'more' with him. Part of me can't believe I'd contemplate it, even for a moment. What do I have in common with an oversized, yarn-spinning, bread-mauling, divorced deliveryman attached to a seven-year-old? The rest of me doesn't know if I remember how to be close to another person. I practice mimicry, a Viceroy butterfly masquerading as a Monarch, a Superb Lyrebird echoing the calls of everything from chickadees to chain saws. I practice stories of my past, telling this sad memory or that scary one, and people feel I'm confiding in them because the words touch their deepest wounds, not because the tales hold any emotional resonance for me. My intimacies, the ones that have become my Sisyphus stones, long-term romantic relationships, the college one, ended with the nice young man shocked when I said I didn't love him and we had nothing in common. "We've spent two years talking about everything," he said. Yes, mimicry.”

VulnerableInsecureWho Am IMimicryLiesl Mcnamara
Book:Stones For Bread
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“Christstollen. I can shake away thoughts of favorite gifts and trips to Oma's house and building snowmen with Santa hats every Christmas Eve, as long as enough snow covered the ground. But my mother's stollen won't fall off as easily. She made it for my father; he ate the first piece with cream cheese at breakfast while I had bacon and chocolate chip pancakes and my mother drank her special amaretto tea. The recipe is there, tucked in her recipe box, the index card translucent in places from butter stains. I hold it in my hand, considering, reading the ingredients and pawing through the cupboards and pantry. We have raisins and a bag of dried cranberries from last year's Christmas baking. There's a wrinkled orange in the fruit bin, a couple plastic packets of lemon juice that came with one of my father's fish and chips take-out orders. No marzipan, almonds, candied fruit, or mace. I'll be up all night. It's too much effort. But the card won't seem to leave my hand. So I start, soaking the fruit and preparing the sponge.”

MemoriesBreadChristmasIngredientsRecipeLiesl McnamaraStollen
Book:Stones For Bread
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“The reason that she loved cookbooks so much was that the people who wrote them were experts at food who weren't chefs. They could tell you how to make the coziest roast chicken with root vegetables, how to bake up a lasagna, they'd probably roll all the pasta sheets from scratch, using 00 flour imported from Italy; they'd add some rare and unexpected cheese, char the sides of each individual piece in a skillet to give it a restaurant sheen, add microgreens, and swirl some unneeded sauce around the plate before making the waiter give a speech on how to eat it properly. Why go through all of that trouble when a basic, familiar lasagna is the kind of comforting, rib-sticking goodness that most people want?”

HomecookingRustica
Book:Food Person
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