Greek yogurt, topped with a bit of freshly made marmalade. One of the true pleasures in life.

My mom taught me the basics of hand sewing when I was a kid. I wanted to learn after reading a biography for kids about Betsy Ross, in which they described her perfectly tiny and even stitches. While my needlework has never been anything to write home about, I know enough to be able mend a ripped seam or repair a button.

My sewing basket once belonged to my Grandpa Sid’s first wife. She died young, of a brain aneurism or something equally awful, around 1960. He married my Grandma Tutu in 1969 (three years after her first husband died) and was the only grandfather I ever knew. I adored him and I’m so happy to have this piece of his life and carry on this tiny bit of history.

Scott added a new game to our collection today. It’s called Star Trek Fleet Captains and while it isn’t something that I would have sought out on my own, I had a whole lot of fun playing it (once we figured out the rules).

On a typical day, chances are you’ll find me in our apartment. Truly, I am nearly always home, either working in the kitchen or at my computer. Today was a little different. Scott and I went out to lunch at the Capital Grille to try out their new Plates menu (more on that coming on Thursday). And if that wasn’t enough, then I left him and dashed to meet my friend Tara and catch a Bolt Bus to New York. I felt like quite the cosmopolitan girl for a hot second.

The reason for the trip to New York is that IACP (that’s the International Association of Culinary Professionals) was having a big old cocktail party for members. I joined recently and decided that a networking event was just what I needed. There were a ton of people and while I’m not sure exactly how much networking I did, I had a great time and am so glad I went. It was also SO nice to get a chance to spend some time with Tara. Traveling with a friend makes the time go by so much faster!

I got up at 8:30 this morning to make a coffeecake. This is not normal behavior for me. Typically you’ll find me in bed well past 10 am on Sundays, particularly during the winter months when there’s no farmers’ market to attend. But I had promised to bring a sweet thing to church for the post-service coffee hour and so I was up, baking.

This particular task actually served two purposes, as I’m also writing about coffeecake for this week’s Weekender column over on the FN Dish and so needed to make Ina’s sour cream version to photograph. I try to arrange this kind of doubling up whenever possible, so that I can get my work done without the temptation of a giant confection taking up residence in my kitchen for an entire week.

I’ve been a member of the First Unitarian Church here in Philadelphia since my first month in the city. In just a week or so, I’ll have been here for ten years, so that’s a good long time. However, it’s been years since I attended the Sunday service with any regularity. Last year, I think I went all of twice. This year, I’ve not been even once.

There are so many reasons for this. Life is far busier than it once was. I married someone who has no interest in organized religion of any stripe. I started valuing the ability to go to the farmers’ market more than I felt a need to go to church. I don’t really enjoy the services under the leadership of the current minister.

Most vitally, church for me has always been about the people more so than a need to feel spiritually fed or re-inspired. In recent years, all of my close friends have moved on or moved away. Without them, all that was left was the experience. When those moments of grace occur for me in a sanctuary, I do feel grateful. It’s just that they are fleeting, precious and rare (and truly not limited to a church). With my many human tethers gone, I lost the ability to go week after week, in the hopes of capturing that feeling that happened with such mysterious infrequency.

Despite all this, I still maintain my membership. I pledge each spring and send money on a monthly basis (though I had to cut back this year after being laid off). And when I’m asking to participate in a way that doesn’t require long hours of committee meetings or full Sunday morning attendance, I do my best to say yes.

My continued but distant involvement stems from the time I served on the search committee for the current minister. Included in that group of seven was a woman named Billie Penn Johnson*. She was in her seventies and had been a member of the church for far longer than I’d been alive. Over the course of our search, several times she reminded us that a church is not the minister. It is the people. Throughout all the times when I’ve felt tempted to break up with this creaky, dysfunctional church, I remember her words. And so I stay.

This morning, when the coffeecake was finished baking and cooling and I’d taken all the photos I needed, I cut it, arranged the slices nicely on a pair of sturdy paper plates, swaddled them in plastic wrap and walked the two blocks to the church. As so often happens when I carry cake through the city, passersby grinned at me and asked for slices. Nothing makes city dwellers to friendly as the sight and scent of a freshly baked sweet.

I snuck into the sanctuary mid-service and put my plates down on the refreshment table. Standing near the door were three women that I’ve known since my first days at the church. Suddenly, the people merged with the grace and I remembered how good church can be. They all grinned and gave me hugs. One motioned to give me an order of service. I indicated that I wasn’t staying; she smiled and shrugged. Another was calming her hiccuping baby. He grinned with his whole face and lunged for me. I planted a kiss on his cheek and squeezed his mama’s hand. Then I slipped out.

I got more from those few moments greeting without speaking than I would have from the entire service.

*Billie Penn died on December 15, 2011. I didn’t start this piece as an intentional remembrance, but here we are, nonetheless.

Throughout the course of our relationship, Scott and I have gone through phases where we take epic walks. We pick a point someplace around the city (often a bookstore or restaurant) and zigzag our way there. These adventures span three or four hours and are always wonderful.

In the last couple weeks, our schedules have been happily uncluttered and the weather has been unseasonably warm. So we’ve walked. Yesterday, we set out with the intention of visiting Brickbat Books and Mostly Books in Queen Village. I bought an old golden book at Brickbat and made a most unfortunate faux pas. I said, far too loudly, that I might look for a cheaper copy of a particular book online. I think the book seller overheard me and I continue to feel abashed. Bad bookstore form. I promise, if I do end up buying that book, I’ll go back to the store and get it.

At Mostly Books, I found a copy of Country Commune Cooking (it’s a book I grew up with and love) and a charming, undated stapled book entitled Maine Cook Book. Scott got a copy of the series he’s working his way through.

It was such a nice way to spend a Saturday afternoon.

I got my haircut today, after more than five months away from the salon. After I got laid off, I stopped spending money on the unnecessary and haircuts sure felt frivolous to me. Now freshly trimmed, I’ve realized how much I’ve missed looking cute and just how frumpy and bland I’d been feeling. It wasn’t frivolous at all!

Making smoked paprika hummus to fill out the fridge and to give me post content for that other blog.

My lower back still aches. It leaves me feeling frustrated and ancient. I’m reminded of how fragile these bodies of ours are and how easily it is to go from entirely fine to broken. I also suddenly relate with frightening ease to my elderly neighbors.

Oof. This has been a tough week. Trying to get back into a normal routine after more than two weeks of vacationing, holidays and travel has left me feeling off.

Worst of all, this morning, as I was making our bed, my lower back went all crazy. For all the world, it felt like someone has planted a boot smack in the small of my back and applied all their weight. I spent the day with a warm rice bag tucked up against my spine and took several doses of ibuprofen. Here’s hoping this doesn’t last long.

Back to business as normal. I’ve been frenzied trying to catch up to looming deadlines. This particular batch of zest went into Orange Cardamom Curd for Simple Bites.