I’d better bring her back right. /The whole house smells of cinnamon and dust.
—from the poem “Making Apple Sauce with My Dead Grandmother,” by Bianca Stone
THE HOLIDAYS and this colder time of year find my kitchen in mostly happy chaos: with sporty teen boys home on winter break (and me having grown up just with! So there is much baking, spilling, stirring, and whirring—and the scent of cinnamon in my hands, my hair, even into my sons’ cheeks, which makes it seem like we must live under an invisible cloud of it in winter.
