Tag: friendship

  • Chewies: A Request from a Friend

    Chewies: A Request from a Friend

    I made these Chewies at the request of a very dear friend, the same friend who encouraged me to write my first book when I wasn’t entirely sure I had one in me. Long before there was a blog, before there were essays about food and memory, she was one of the people who believed I had something worth saying.

    She lives in South Carolina, a place I sometimes think of as the Old South. Not because it is frozen in time, but because the past still lingers there—in the food, the stories, and the traditions that continue to find their way to the table.

    When she shared this recipe with me, I did what many of us do once we’ve reached a certain age. I looked at the ingredients and started counting risks instead of blessings.

    Butter.

    Brown sugar.

    More brown sugar.

    Pecans.

    I read the measurements and immediately began complaining about the health consequences of eating something this rich.

    She laughed.

    Not a polite laugh. Not a sympathetic laugh. The kind of laugh that comes from someone who already knows how the story ends.

    “You’ll love it,” she said. “You’ll probably eat the whole pan in one day.”

    I sincerely hope I don’t.

    These days, I try not to burden my closest friends with every ache, every doctor’s visit, or every reminder that time moves in only one direction. We all carry enough. I’d rather spend our conversations talking about books, grandchildren, old memories, and recipes passed from one hand to another.

    And that is what these chewies feel like to me.

    A gift.

    A reminder that friendship often arrives in simple forms. Sometimes it is a phone call. Sometimes it is encouragement when you’re afraid to begin. Sometimes it is a recipe shared across state lines with the confidence that you’ll understand why it matters once you take the first bite.

    Now, I still don’t believe these chewies qualify as healthy eating. In fact, after reading the ingredient list, I’m fairly certain they qualify as the exact opposite. But friendship requires sacrifice, and if my friend was kind enough to recommend this recipe to me, the least I can do is share it with others.

    So that is my plan.

    I will make a pan and share them with some friends, and we can all be unhealthy together.

    At our age, that may not be the wisest decision. But there is something to be said for sitting around a table with people you care about, laughing at old stories, sharing good food, and pretending not to notice who reached for the second piece first.

    Sweet, rich, unapologetic, and deeply rooted in the Gullah Geechee tradition, these chewies are the kind of dessert that reminds us that not every recipe was created to be healthy. Some recipes were created to bring people together, to celebrate, to comfort, and most of all, to be remembered.

    Gullah Geechee Chewies 

    Serves: 10–12

    Ingredients

    • 170 g unsalted butter
    • 660 g packed light or dark brown sugar
    • 3 large eggs, beaten
    • 7.5 mL vanilla extract (1½ teaspoons)
    • 360 g pecans, chopped
    • 375 g self-rising flour
    • 30 g powdered (confectioners’) sugar, for dusting

    Homemade Self-Rising Flour (375 g)

    If you don’t have self-rising flour, whisk together:

    • 375 g all-purpose flour
    • 18 g baking powder
    • 3 g fine salt

    Method

    1. Preheat the oven to 170°C.
    2. Grease either:
      • a 23 × 33 cm baking dish for thicker chewies, or
      • a 26.5 × 39 cm jelly-roll pan for thinner bars.
    3. In a medium saucepan, melt the butter over medium heat.
    4. Stir in the brown sugar until smooth and fully combined.
    5. Remove from the heat and allow the mixture to cool for a few minutes.
    6. Stir in the beaten eggs and vanilla extract.
    7. Fold in the chopped pecans.
    8. Add the self-rising flour and mix until just combined.
    9. Spread the batter evenly into the prepared pan.
    10. Bake:
      • 25 minutes for the jelly-roll pan, or
      • 40 minutes for the deeper baking dish.
    11. The edges should be golden brown and the center set. A skewer inserted into the center should come out slightly damp.
    12. Dust lightly with the powdered sugar.
    13. Allow the chewies to cool completely in the pan before cutting.
    14. For easier slicing, turn the slab out onto a cutting board and cut into squares.

    Cook’s Notes

    • Toast the pecans at 175°C for 8–10 minutes before chopping for a deeper flavor.
    • These chewies are even better the next day, when the flavors have had time to settle and deepen.
    • Traditional chewies should remain slightly fudgy in the center. Avoid overbaking; they will continue to set as they cool.

    Kyle J. Hayes

    kylehayesblog.com

    Please like, comment, and share

    Resources for Hard Times

    If you’re looking for practical help, food support, or community resources, you can visit the Salt, Ink & Soul Resources Page.

    👉 Resources for Hard Times

  • Trying to Be Useful

    Trying to Be Useful

    Hello all,

    I have always been what some people call book smart.

    I know things.

    Some useful.

    Some not.

    Some filed away in the crowded rooms of my mind for reasons even I do not fully understand.

    I can remember fragments of history.

    A line from a song.

    The meaning behind a movement.

    The reason something happened long before I was born, and why it still has its hand around the present.

    For much of my life, knowledge has been a tool.

    It gave shape to things that hurt.

    It gave language to silence.

    It gave me something to hold when the world felt too large and too indifferent.

    But lately, I have been reminded of something humbling.

    There are moments when knowledge is not enough.

    I have another friend battling a terrible illness, and I find myself standing in that helpless place where the mind keeps reaching for answers and comes back with empty hands.

    I know the power of prayer.

    I believe in prayer.

    I believe in the quiet force of it.

    I believe there are rooms we cannot enter, battles we cannot fight directly, pain we cannot remove, and still our prayers can travel where our hands cannot.

    But I would be lying if I said prayer has quieted all of me.

    Because there is another part of me that wants to do more.

    That part of me wants a list.

    A plan.

    A solution.

    A way to fix what is breaking.

    A way to step into the storm and make myself useful.

    And that is where the ache begins.

    I am used to figuring things out. I am used to turning problems over, studying the corners, looking for the door everyone else missed. I am used to believing that if I sit with something long enough, I can find a path.

    But illness does not always offer a path.

    Sometimes illness is a locked room.

    Sometimes love stands outside of it with no key.

    That is a hard thing for a person like me to admit.

    Because when someone you care about is suffering, being still can feel like failure. Waiting can feel like abandonment. Saying “I am praying for you” can feel small, even when it is not.

    And maybe that is the difficulty.

    Not that prayer is weak.

    But that love is restless.

    Love wants hands.

    Love wants legs.

    Love wants to carry groceries, pay bills, sit in hospital rooms, answer phones, make soup, raise money, hold silence, and somehow bargain with the universe for more time.

    Love does not like standing helpless.

    And yet, so much of being human is learning how to stand in places where we cannot control the outcome.

    That may be one of the hardest lessons of adulthood. Not responsibility. Not discipline. Not survival. But the knowledge that you can love someone deeply and still not be able to save them from what they are facing.

    There is a particular kind of pain in that.

    It strips away the illusion that intelligence is protection. It reminds you that all the books, all the facts, all the carefully stored knowledge in the world cannot always tell you what to do when someone you love is hurting.

    And maybe that is why I have felt useless lately.

    Not because I am useless.

    But because the tools I usually trust do not seem large enough for the moment.

    Still, I am trying to remember that usefulness does not always look like rescue.

    Sometimes usefulness is presence.

    Sometimes it is a phone call.

    A message.

    A prayer whispered when no one is watching.

    A meal was dropped off without needing credit.

    A donation.

    A shared link.

    A ride.

    A quiet check-in that does not demand a response.

    A willingness to keep showing up after the first wave of concern has passed.

    Sometimes, usefulness is not solving the pain.

    Sometimes it refuses to let someone feel alone inside it.

    I am thinking about that now.

    I am praying.

    I am listening.

    I am looking for what can be done.

    Maybe that is where I begin.

    Not with the grand gesture.

    Not with the perfect answer.

    Not with the fantasy that I can fix what illness has broken.

    But with what I have.

    My prayers.

    My words.

    My books.

    My small platform.

    My willingness to ask others to care with me.

    Maybe that is nothing.

    Maybe, in a world that often teaches us to look away from suffering because it makes us uncomfortable, choosing to stay near is already an act of love.

    I do not yet know exactly what to do.

    That is the honest truth.

    But I know I do not want to do nothing.

    So I will keep praying.

    I will keep thinking.

    I will keep looking for the things my hands can do.

    And maybe that is what care becomes when we are out of answers.

    A prayer first.

    Then a step.

    Then another.

    Kyle J. Hayes

    kylehayesblog.com

    If this found you at the right time,

    Feel free to like, comment, or share it with someone who might need it too.

    Resources for Hard Times

    If you’re looking for practical help, food support, or community resources, you can visit the Salt, Ink & Soul Resources Page.

    👉 Resources for Hard Times

  • Why Felix Always Checks on His Friends

    Why Felix Always Checks on His Friends

    In the soft morning light, Felix the Fox woke to a feeling he couldn’t quite name.

    It wasn’t a sound or a smell—just a tug on his heart, as if someone far away had whispered his name through the trees.

    Felix sat up and listened.

    The woods were doing what they always did: rustling their leaves like pages of a story, humming their deep, steady song. Yet beneath all of that, Felix sensed something else.

    A quiet.

    A quiet that didn’t feel quite right.

    He took a breath, wrapped his tail around himself for courage, and said aloud:

    “I think… someone might need me today.”

    So he set off through the forest, not rushing, not worrying—just walking with his ears open and his heart curious. Felix had learned something important: sometimes you don’t know who needs kindness until you go looking for them.

    Maple the Rabbit

    The first friend he found was Maple the Rabbit, sitting beside a stump, nose barely twitching.

    “Good morning,” Felix said softly. “Are you all right today?”

    Maple blinked. She hadn’t expected anyone to notice the heaviness in her hop.

    “I’m… just a little sad,” she whispered.

    Felix didn’t try to fix it.

    He simply sat beside her.

    Sometimes being near someone is its own kind of help.

    After a few quiet moments, Maple’s nose twitched again—this time with gratitude.

    Felix gave her a warm nod and continued down the path.

    Bramble the Bear Cub

    Next, he found Bramble the Bear Cub, trying to lift a large fallen branch blocking the trail. Bramble pushed and pushed, shoulders trembling.

    “That looks tough,” Felix said. “Would you like a paw?”

    Bramble nodded, embarrassed but relieved. Together, they nudged the branch aside. It didn’t take long.

    But the smile that returned to Bramble’s face lasted much longer.

    “You made it easier,” Bramble said.

    “You asked for help,” Felix replied. “That makes us a team.”

    Piper the Bluebird

    As he walked on, Felix felt that tug again—light and gentle, but full of meaning.

    Someone else was waiting.

    He reached the quiet meadow near the Stream of Mornings, where Piper the Bluebird perched on a low branch. Her wings drooped, and she wasn’t singing her usual bright songs.

    Felix sat beneath her tree.

    “You don’t have to sing today,” he said. “But I thought I’d check on you. Just in case your heart was feeling small.”

    Piper fluttered down, landing lightly on his shoulder.

    “It was,” she said. “But it feels a little bigger now.”

    Felix smiled—the soft, glowing kind that spreads through your whole chest.

    “That’s good,” he said. “Hearts aren’t meant to grow alone.”

    As the sun climbed higher, the woods felt warmer, fuller. Not because the air had changed, but because Felix had moved through it with care—

    noticing the quiet things that often go unseen.

    When he finally returned home, he curled up in his den and understood the feeling he’d had that morning.

    Kindness isn’t just something you give.

    It’s something you notice.

    A listening.

    A moment of paying attention.

    And the more you notice, the more you understand:

    Every creature—big or small, loud or quiet—carrys something inside that matters.

    That evening, as the stars blinked awake, Felix whispered into the gentle hush of the forest:

    “I check on my friends because we all shine a little brighter when someone sees us.”

    And far across the Whispering Woods, three friends—Maple, Bramble, and Piper—felt that truth like a warm lantern glowing inside them.

    It’s a small thing, checking on someone.

    But small things have a beautiful way of becoming big.

    And that is why Felix always checks on his friends.

    Kyle J. Hayes

    kylehayesblog.com

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  • What I’m Grateful For on the Days After

    What I’m Grateful For on the Days After

    Salt, Ink & Soul — Weekend Reflection

    The days after Thanksgiving have always felt like a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. The noise fades, the house settles, and suddenly there’s space — space to think, to feel, to hear the quiet truths that get lost in the rush of the holiday.

    There’s a different kind of gratitude that lives in these slower hours.

    Not the big, performative kind that gets spoken around tables or posted online.

    But the smaller, steadier kind — the gratitude that rises from the life you return to when the celebration ends.

    I’m grateful that I have a place to stay — a space that holds me, shelters me, and gives me room to breathe.

    I’m grateful that I have food to eat — not just the leftovers stacked in the fridge, but the comfort of knowing the next meal is within reach.

    I’m grateful that I have a job to go to — a place to show up, to contribute, to remain anchored in a world that often feels uncertain.

    And I’m grateful — deeply, quietly grateful — for my friends.

    The ones who check in without being asked.

    The ones who text or call just to make sure I’m alright.

    The ones who notice the small shifts in my voice and remind me I don’t have to carry everything alone.

    That kind of care is its own blessing.

    Soft, steady, and honest.

    I’m grateful for the leftovers that gently carry me into the days ahead.

    For the containers packed a little fuller than expected.

    For the warmth of yesterday lingering inside today’s refrigerator light.

    Some blessings arrive loud.

    Others whisper.

    And I’m learning — slowly, steadily — to hear both.

    Kyle J. Hayes

    kylehayesblog.com

    Please like, comment, and share

    Resources for Hard Times

    If you’re looking for practical help, food support, or community resources, you can visit the Salt, Ink & Soul Resources Page.

    👉 Resources for Hard Times