Sometimes I feel really in sync with my kids. It doesn’t happen every day, but sometimes it’s like they really, really know that I need something and they just come through for me in a big way.
Like today. Elliette slept all night last night, and then she took a long nap this afternoon while I worked in the kitchen. My husband took my son for a nap ride, so I had a couple of hours to myself, baby girl sound asleep and swinging next to me, to enjoy a little kitchen therapy. Not just cooking, exactly, but the careful practice of working through the things in my kitchen. Using my fresh ingredients, planning meals for the week. Making things we love out of things that would otherwise be thrown out. It’s an art, really – the art of homemaking. Being a homemaker. I’ve always been pretty good at it, but I’ve not always been able to put it into practice. Especially these past several years, as my career took off a little and I found myself borrowing from one important part of my life to pay off the other.
It’s the beginning of the growing season for us, and that usually starts off with 2 things: spinach and rhubarb. I get so excited to see them that I nearly forget each year that I’m not that crazy about either spinach or rhubarb. I’m just so damned happy to see them, and they serve as such a wonderful sign of things to come, that I don’t even care. In early spring, it’s not so much about having what you love, but loving what you have. So today I loved spinach and rhubarb. I stuffed as much spinach as humanly possible into a huge pan of ricotta shells (along with some parsley I bought from a local farmer) and I boiled the rhubarb into syrup for spritzers and ice cream. The remaining pulp will make great breakfasts slathered on toast, and watching my son eat it will be even better than eating it myself. For Finn’s lunch tomorrow, I boiled our older eggs instead of throwing them out. I’ve been meaning to do that for months with the eggs we don’t get to, but I never have time. For months, I haven’t had time to boil eggs. What the hell does that say about my life? Continue reading
