this post was inspired by a prompt in my women's circle.
the prompt unfolded into this story for me and i felt pulled to share it with you...
Special as a practice...
the kitchen has always been where my huge family gathers. grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins. all gathered in the kitchen area. telling stories and laughing.
i was born from story tellers.
but cooking...
i hated cooking. i hated everything about it. such a chore to me.
growing up my parents had an agreement...
you cook. i clean.
so my entire life i looked on as my mother prepared food with love and my father would get up after dinner and clean. we had no dishwasher or garbage disposal so everything was done by hand.
my mother used to joke that he made out in the agreement because she was diligent about cleaning as she went along preparing meals.
i too am diligent in this way. when we moved in together after five weeks of dating i proposed to him that we adopt my parents agreement. he eagerly agreed.
he cooked. i cleaned.
years later circumstances allowed for me to suddenly become a full time stay at home mom.
i was expected to cook. and clean.
i resented it. it wasn't me. i would rather do anything than cook.
years later i moved my parents here from Texas. after losing my brother, my mother needed her family around her. she needed me. she had 3 babies. i was now all she had left.
she was in treatment so most of our time together was filled with appointments and chemo.
we repaired our tumultuous relationship. we bonded tightly. depended deeply on one another. all was forgiven.
in an effort to have our time together have deeper meaning i started hosting Sunday dinners at our house.
during that time i began to learn the beautiful gift of loving my people up with the energy, the love, that i put into preparing meals for them.
my mother would come into the kitchen and sit in the same spot asking if there was anything she could do to help, to which i would respond, "you can keep me company". once in awhile i would place something in front of her to chop. we would chat about everything and fill the kitchen with laughter.
she knew she was dying. we did not.
i refused to let her speak about it. something i would honor now if i could. at the time i just couldn't. i explained to her one day with tears pouring down my face that i simply couldn't bare the thought of losing her when i felt as though we were truly seeing each other for the first time.
so she honored that in a way i didn't pick up on at the time. she offered to start teaching me how to prepare our cherished family recipes. the ones passed down through generations. my Peepaw (her dad) also loved to cook for his people. a gift he received from his mom, my beloved Grandma.
so Sunday dinners turned into cooking lessons. my mother was magic in the kitchen.
she could take 3 ingredients and turn them into a gourmet meal.
she slowly started to bring things to my house and leave them behind. the frosting knife she had frosted every cake with since i was a child. the meat fork my Peepaw used to hold the meat as he carved. the deviled egg dish with the gold trim that belonged to my Grandma.
when i would try to return them she'd say, "why don't you keep it."
after my mom passed Sunday dinners were painful for me, but i didn't tell anyone.
i would go into the kitchen and cry into the food as i chopped and stirred. i missed her presence in that chair. i missed her belly laughs. i missed someone asking, "is there anything i can do to help?"
i still do. terribly so.
my father began asking me to prepare meals that my mother used to cook for him. my heart aches for him. he's so young to have lost his life partner, his soul mate. he's buried two sons. if there is nothing else i can do to soothe his aching heart, i can cook for him.
he takes a bite and smiles so big. "oh man this is good baby. tastes just like your mother's."
he calls every Monday morning to thank me again for last night's dinner.
he told me about a year after she left us that she knew exactly what she was doing. she was giving me the greatest gift she had to give. a gift that was passed down to her. a gift that would live on long after her.
from my mother i was gifted the joy of loving others through nourishing their bodies.
shortly after she passed i was at a thrift store with my daughter one day and found a beautiful serving bowl that i adored. my old self never would have bought a used dish, but i began to see it differently. i imagined the stories those pieces held. the idea that they were a part of the way someone loved up their people.
i began to bring beauty into a space i had once neglected. i let go of the idea that everything needed to match.
i now only purchase items that bring me great joy.
a serving bowl made by a potter that shares the stories of her ancestors and her travels with me once a year when i see her at the fair. she remembers me and what i've purchased from her collection.
the olive wood spoons my daughter and i happened upon one day.
we drink from mugs made by my daughter's sweet hands and the hands of a young girl who lives on the wheel at a local art museum.
and of course there is the frosting knife where it all began that my daughter uses to frost everything she bakes.
it doesn't matter if it's taco night or a big luscious meal. everything is served in these beautiful dishes. cloth napkins in rings. it gives me so much joy to do so.
the presentation changes the energy of the meal.
all of these items need to be washed by hand. some have to be rubbed down with oil after every use. i no longer resent my time in the kitchen.
i cook. i clean.
and often i feel her sitting in that chair. gathered around the table with my Peepaw and my Grandma looking on as i love up my people.
a gift from my ancestors.