If there's anything in life as satisfying as good food, it's a good story.
Most of this is about the food.
Here's the story.
Over the years, there have been many places that I've called home:
Portland, Minneapolis, Oxford, Saint Cloud.
Box 42 was the first.
I grew up in South Dakota. Our farm didn't have a street name or a house number, just a gravel road and the address "Rural Route 4, Box 42."
Here, I learned that food meant a lot more than just sustenance for your body.
It meant welcome, as chilly workers made their way through the dark toward the farmhouse's glowing kitchen windows for their long-awaited supper.
It meant community, as neighbors traded bushels of apples for buckets of sweet corn, all of which we picked together.
It meant comfort, as Scandinavian-Midwesterners aren't great with the right words to say at a funeral, but are great at bringing a hot dish.
And of course, it meant love, as I spent so many happy days in the kitchen with my family.
Although the places have changed for me, those meanings haven't.
Baking is my way to share welcome, community, comfort, and love.
I've been so happy to find that all of those things are right at home here in Portland too.
Here, I'm continuing to learn
that food is also an adventure.
It's creative and tasty and
a little weird.