Liz Bruenig is not above pumpkin spice. Illustration: Margalit Cutler “I work on morality and public life, which is kind of douchey,” says journalist Elizabeth Bruenig, who in June moved from the New York Times Opinion pages to a staff gig at the Atlantic. A Texan Christian socialist, Bruenig is known for many things: her reporting, obviously, as well as her podcast , her robust Twitter presence, and, lately, her constant baking projects; for the past year, she has been on a tear of macarons.
By then, I’d fed the kids their dinner — pigs in blankets, which is to say cocktail weenies in puff pastry. One of them dipped them in ketchup, the other skinned them and mainly ate the dough, and then they haggled for grapes, yogurt, and a sugar cookie each. I’m always like, “But wait, what about things that have some amount of vitamins or minerals or protein?” And they’re like “no.” So that’s the debate. We wrestled them into bed, and then I consulted the fridge for my turn.
I was on the phone with sources about an impending story all the way to Hartford, but we did drop off the cake in time. I can’t drive, as I said, so my husband, Matt, was my ride — and has been since we met on our North Texas high school debate team. I make a lot of macarons. I got into it about a year ago, just watching YouTube tutorials. They’re so damn fancy — they’re just the fussiest little bitches. There’s so many things that can go wrong. They can be lopsided, they can crack, they can stick, they can fail to have feet, they can get discolored, they can be too dry, they can be too wet. I think that what’s so special about them is they’re labor intensive — they’re kind of a labor of love.
As luck would have it, I’d already reconciled myself to this somewhat by planning a low-key end-of-summer dinner with friends tonight. BBQ pulled pork for the main event, and I threw together some soft white dinner rolls using a King Arthur Flour recipe so we could make sliders, preferably with thin-sliced white onion and pickles.
Granted, I was a little worn out from the week, but nothing waits, you know? That’s the thing about being a mother. It can feel liberating in a surprising way. It doesn’t really matter what chaos gets ahold of you. You stand in a suddenly quiet house on a Sunday wondering what to do, but then the dust motes floating in the sun settle and you put one foot in front of the other.
No thank you.
Cringe
ebruenig Oh god can’t you keep her away from things I actually enjoy reading?
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