I unlatch the case and pull back the velvet cloth. I pull out the bow first, tightening it, checking if it needs rosin. Setting down the bow, I take out my violin and the shoulder rest, fixing its squeaky rubber feet to the back of the instrument. Picking up my bow, I tune, A string first, then D, G and finally the E, reaching under my bow arm to turn the fine tuner on the tailpiece. There is comfort in the ritual, as much a part of warming up as running scales, a chance to reacquaint myself with an old friend.
There on the counter is a stick of butter I took from the fridge after breakfast. Unwrapping it, I cut large yellow chunks that fall into the flour and release a tiny puff of dust. My pastry knife is old, an estate sale find from my college days, and I relish the feel of the smooth wood handle. I use its blades, turned out from one sheet of metal, to cut the butter into the flour, a comforting gesture, full of promise.
The plums are still green around the edges, but are soft and dripping with juice. It will be a good year, I think. I roll out dough for the tart pan, prick it, and fill it with a spiral of the golden-fleshed fruit. There is still a fair amount of dough left, so I grab a small pie pan and slice up the two large apples our favorite tree gave us this week. A garnish of cinnamon and sugar, some oats and butter streusel, and it joins the queue for the oven. The smallish ball rolls out to fit one of the play tins from the kids, and receives a dusting of cornstarch and handful of blueberries from the fridge. And, like the top of Mr. Willoughby’s Christmas tree, the tiny nub of leftover dough becomes a pocket in my hand to hold a dollop of jam (Rote Grutze-raspberries, strawberries and red currants), destined for the open mouth of my dance partner for life.
