Without a space for projects to occupy my mind after a day at the box staring at a box, I’ve set my sights on the wonder of the kitchen. Although I’ve dabbled in kitchen foolery before, my heart never sincerely appreciated of the art and chemistry* of preparing a meal.
Each Sunday I scour over cookbooks – my mind weighing the value of ingredients based on knowledge of their location at the grocery. Logistics matter, you see.
Recipes, like music, are intertwined in the fiber of our genetic makeup. To me, lasagna screams of celebration, while meatloaf reminds me the toddler version of my now big-little brother.
We, two humans + a dog begging for scraps, gather around the table with our phones facing the hardwood. (Eventually, they’ll be banned. Probably.) Dinnertime is becoming the daily inquisition. It’s for bragging rights, celebrations and ‘did you sees’. It’s to listen, to share, to be.
We may never make it five consecutive meals at the dinner table again, and that’s okay; however, I cross my heart and kiss my elbow that we’ll make it to the table at least once a week. Even if it’s for cereal.
The food is the medium, a necessary guest. Conversations and memories by way of pot-roast, if you dare.
*I made perfect scores in Chem Lab. Thought you should know. You’re welcome.