Welcome to The Bakehouse Almanac — a new monthly ritual I’m so glad you’re here for. At the top of each month, this little almanac will land like a note taped to the fridge accompanied by a mug of coffee slid across the counter. It’s our monthly guide of sorts: a mix of good intentions, short lists, seasonal thoughts, and a few personal notes from me as we move through the year together. Think of it as a vibe check as we step into each new month. An intentional break from the news cycle.
This is very much a shared table situation. A dialogue, not a monologue, if you will. In the comments, I’d love for you to check in too! Tell me how February feels where you are, what’s playing in your earbuds, what’s baking in your oven (or what you’re hoping to bake this month). We’re doing this together, one month at a time, with dirty dishes in the sink and the very best of intentions. Here’s how we felt about January from the comments from last month’s almanac.
Friends, can we talk about vultures?
I’ve had vultures circling this old house in Bellville since I moved in a few years ago. I’m well aware they have very little to do with me personally and much more to do with my small town address and proximity to a two-lane highway where the occasional raccoon, possum, squirrel, or even deer loses a battle with an oncoming car.
The vultures are the clean-up crew around here, and I’ve always appreciated their service.
Two springs ago, shortly after I moved in, I noticed an injured vulture hiding in the little barn at the edge of the pasture. One wing hung awkwardly at his side, poor guy. And he teetered away from me anytime I approached with a bowl of water. I stood there wondering: did I have anything dead to offer him? That felt like the wrong instinct.
For days, his vulture family perched on the roof of the house, watching over him. It felt biblical. I didn’t know what to do, so I called city hall. A very patient city worker came out, surveyed the situation, nodded solemnly, and confirmed that yes, that was an injured vulture, and no, he would not be doing anything about it.
He gently reminded me that I live in the country now. And that nature, at times, natures right there in your pasture.
The next morning, the injured vulture was gone. The entire funeral of birds had vanished too.
As scavengers of the ecosystem, it would be easy to see vultures as omens. Like signs of doom, decay, something ending. But just as I confidently tell people this old Victorian house is not haunted when they ask, I choose to see vultures for their different spiritual meaning. They are renewal, transformation, the necessary clearing of things.
Life is perspective, right?
I really started noticing vultures years before I moved into this house, when I began riding motorcycles. Riding 75 mph down a highway with little more than leather and an engine between you and the asphalt sharpens your senses in a hurry, I’ll tell you that! You learn the habits of large black birds very quickly because riding up on one at high speed will make you consider all your life choices.
First of all: vultures are beautiful. Their wingspan is dramatic and elegant. They are inclined to take their sweet time stepping away from their roadside meal. Maybe because a motorcycle creates less vibration than a car. Maybe because they respect us less. Hard to say.
But here’s what I learned: a vulture will always fly in the direction it’s facing. Obvious, maybe. Vital information when you’re approaching fast and need to anticipate which way it will move and which way to steer the motorcycle. I always give them a nod when I pass. I respect their work.
A few weeks ago, I pulled up to my house and literally stopped in my tracks.
There were NINE vultures on my front lawn. NINE! It was downright theatrical in its timing.
After the weeks I’d had, being absolutely pummeled across social media, the presence of the clean-up crew of the dead and unburied gathered on my grass felt… pointed.
I drove slowly past the house and found them picking over a squirrel who had likely been struck on the road and dragged onto my lawn.
Did I, for a moment, feel like that squirrel? Yes. I did. Sometimes the signs are not subtle.
We tried to ease gently into this new year. We whispered “Gentle January” like a spell, but January had other plans. And so it goes.
And now here we are in February. Watching which way the vultures fly.
I still refuse to believe those big, beautiful birds carry doom. I choose to believe they signal transformation. That something has been cleared, and that what remains is fertile ground.
If a vulture always flies in the direction it’s facing, then perhaps that’s our sign for this month. To turn deliberately towards where we want to go, and try our best to lift off and up.
The Oven Is On: Here’s What’s Warming the Kitchen
I’m letting this February be about small gestures. Fewer people at the table. Softer light in the kitchen. Something sweet that doesn’t require a sheet pan the size of Texas.
• Small-Batch Lemon Poppy Seed Muffins are a sweet and simple kind of romance. A tiny batch, just enough for two, like you meant to make exactly this much bright and lemony joy and no more.
• And then there’s Browned Butter Banana Bread, the steady classic. The recipe I reach for when I need the kitchen to smell like reassurance and home. The reason I buy bananas and let them languish on the counter for too long.
• Creme Fraiche Quiche Lorriane is my strong recommendation for the weekend ahead. Make it once and let it linger like a little weekend luxury. I especially like the savory eggy custard pie served with a sharp little salad for Sunday lunch.
What I’m Reaching For: little anchors in joy here and there
Right now, I’ve got landscaping plans spread out across the dining room table like a full-blown operation. I let myself linger in the seed aisle at Tractor Supply this morning, holding little paper packets like they’re lottery tickets for spring. Zinnias. Basil. Maybe a reckless amount of tomatoes this year seeing as I ate all the little Sungold tomatoes straight from the vine last year. I’m daydreaming about what the first planned garden here in Bellville might bring.
On my nightstand: a new novel I’m very much looking forward to, Little One by Olivia Muenter. There is something sacred about having a book waiting for you, and this one’s a bit of a thriller, which I love!
WWOZ has been playing softly in the house most afternoons. If you don’t know it, it’s a New Orleans radio station that feels like a living, breathing porch. I learned that trick from my friend Jessica, a New Orleans native, who always has it playing in her London flat. It’s a way to shift the air in a room without a single moving box.
Also: fuzzy house socks. We are not martyrs to hardwood floors in February.
Also: this recipe for Caribbean Cornmeal Porridge.
One of the more vulnerable parts of being loudly berated on social media is that your real-life people can see it, too. The friends and family who know you in the everyday are also exposed to whatever wild narrative is spinning in the comments section. It’s a strange dissonance to hold: the person they know versus the person being yelled at by strangers.
This past weekend at a sweet little Galentine’s party, my friend Abby had our girlfriends write me handwritten notes. Cards filled with shared memories, inside jokes, reassurance, and very clear reminders that the woman they know is not the rumor of the week. I cried in the car on the way home. Obviously.
A reminder that handwritten notes are medicine. Which means it’s time I put to use the beautiful stationery my big sister Launa brought me back from Japan. If you’ve been waiting for a sign to send someone a letter, this is it!
And lastly, I’ve decided I’m signing myself up for a flower subscription for the next three months. If I’m going to be nesting and building a bakery — there will be flowers on the counter. We deserve beauty that shows up on schedule.
That’s what I’m reaching for this February.
What are you reaching for?
February Ins
-
Changing up the everyday china
My friend Karlee and I were texting about fancy Williams Sonoma china, AS FRIENDS DO, and it inspired me to swap some of my everyday plates with my grandmother’s china just for a bit and just for fun! -
A new cookbook + a book of poems on the bedside table
Something to reach for instead of the phone if we wake up in the middle of the night. I currently have Allison Roman’s new cookbook and Dog Songs by Mary Oliver. Bonus points for a little book light! -
Making dog treats and sharing them
A double batch: one for your pups, one for a neighbor’s. Homemade peanut butter biscuits = instant goodwill. -
Saturday bagel dough, Sunday morning bagels with friends
The kind of low-key hosting that feels right this month. Schmear, strong coffee, pajamas welcome. I love this recipe from King Arthur Baking. -
Chocolate in multiple forms
Chocolate cake, mini chocolate chips on a bowl of vanilla ice cream. Wait… hot fudge! February is not the month for restraint. -
Rearranging one small corner of the house
I’m starting with a corner in the guest room upstairs. Small shifts change the energy! -
Leftover soup on the stove at 5 p.m. for an early dinner
I’m bringing back this old recipe from the blog for Vegan Cream of Broccoli Soup. - French fries as often as necessary for happiness.
February Outs
- Bras past 6pm.
It’s a short list this month.
What’s Playing in the House
• The Köln Concert with Keith Jarrett. This record lives in my top three albums of all time. If you don’t know the lore: it was recorded in 1975 in Cologne, entirely improvised, on a less-than-ideal piano that Jarrett almost refused to play. And yet what came out of that night became one of the best-selling solo piano recordings in history. Casual.
It is searching and repetitive in a way that feels meditative. Sometimes it hums softly in the background while I test kolaches; other times it feels like it’s rearranging something inside me. It’s transformational if you let it be. Or it can simply be beautiful music drifting through the house while the cookies cool on the counter. Both feel super valid.
• Welcome to the group chat because I have been evangelizing John Craigie’s new album I Swam Here to every music lover I know. There’s something about it that sparkles softly. It feels intimate and unguarded.
After a few listens, I learned that much of it was recorded in New Orleans and… well. That explains something. There’s a warmth and looseness to it that feels familiar to my bones. It’s wistful without being heavy. Perfect for slow mornings with coffee or an evening glass of wine while the dogs run like crazy in the backyard.
If January knocked the wind out of you a bit (hi, same), these two albums feel like a steady hand on your back.
Happy Mardi Gras, New Orleans friends! I miss you so much!
Laissez les bons temps rouler
Friends, truly – thank you for being here. Eighteen years is a long time to gather in one corner of the internet and talk about cake and courage and what’s playing in the background while the cookies bake (and we grow up). We’ve built something steady here and I don’t take that lightly.
If this month is about anything, I hope it’s about gently tending to your home, people, your body, and your spirit.
Tell me what you’re reaching for this February. What’s warming your kitchen? What joy are you stacking up on the dining room table? I’ll see in the comments, as always.
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