Small signs of hope
Sometimes, when the news is all bad and the latest groundbreaking television series is just too intense, all I want is “comfort viewing”—something sugary sweet to read or watch to help escape reality. For me and a lot of other people, the Great British Baking Show became that escape during the pandemic, a much-needed antidote to the stress of daily life. In the world of the big baking tent, the English countryside always looked beautiful, and the contestants’ biggest worry was nothing more serious than burning a pot of caramel.
The gaps between seasons of the GBBS have become difficult for those of us who like literal sugar in our escapism, but recently, I discovered an equivalent—on Facebook of all places. And yes, it still involves baking.
A number of years ago, I had a wonderful Pilates instructor named Marisa who, like me, came from an Italian American family. We often talked about how we shared common experiences growing up even though I was much older than Marisa, and my extended family was based in New Jersey, while hers lived near Pittsburgh. Then one day, as we were discussing plans for her upcoming wedding, Marisa told me about a custom I’d never heard of before: The Wedding Cookie Table.
In a world in which weddings sometimes feel like glitzy, staged productions, the Wedding Cookie Table is a refreshing throwback to simpler times. Although the origins of the custom are not entirely clear, it seems to have roots in the European immigrant communities of Catholic descent in Western Pennsylvania, West Virginia, and Eastern Ohio. Before the big day, relatives and friends of the couple bake massive quantities of different kinds of cookies, many from longtime family recipes, which are displayed on long serving tables at the reception. Wedding guests get to enjoy the homemade cookies for dessert and also load up takeout containers to bring some home.
That all sounded great, but frankly, after Marisa moved away, I didn’t give any more thought to wedding cookie tables, which I’ve never seen in person. Recently, however, I was wasting time scrolling on social media when “The Wedding Cookie Table Community” popped up in my Facebook feed. Somehow (and I’m afraid to ask how), the algorithm knew that this group, which I immediately joined, was exactly what I needed at this particular moment in time.
Members of the Wedding Cookie Table Community appear to have one thing in common—an interest in baking cookies and other pastries for weddings and other large events. (Last week the page was filled with photos of special tables for St. Patrick’s Day on the 17th and St. Joseph’s Day on the 19th.) And although at the moment I have no need to become a cookie caterer myself, I enjoy lurking on the page and watching the other members of the group support and encourage one another. I don’t think it reveals too much to say that recent posts involved such controversial topics as “too-flat” chocolate chip cookies, the optimal number of cookies to bake for a particular gathering, and the best takeout containers to provide for guests. (My unspoken views: even flat chocolate chip cookies are great, the optimal number is a lot, and the best takeout containers are big.) No politics. No religion. No rancor. In fact, the Wedding Cookie Table Community page is the proof I needed that the complete opposite is still possible—bonding with strangers over a single shared interest, a slim line of affinity bridging other, potentially bigger divides. It’s social media heaven.
These days we spend so much time focused on the discord in our country that we’re losing sight of potential avenues to build community and consensus. Obviously, life is not all butter and sugar and delicious treats. But my husband recently reminded me of an old saying that gives me hope: “Small hinges can move big doors.” Maybe sharing recipes and freezing techniques—or other, tiny details of our interests or our lives—can be the small hinges that open doors toward connection with people we don’t know. And perhaps even the first step toward the greater unity I think we all want.