everything else is just your ego saying, “i’d rather it be different.
Prompt from Gretchen Rubin: Make. What was the last thing you made? What materials did you use? Is there something you want to make, but you need to clear some time for it?
I can’t remember when I learned how to make good food. Or when I fell in love with making it for the people in my life.
I grew up in a house where my mom and dad seemed to just throw consistently delicious meals together. I have no idea where my dad picked this up, but I have a feeling my mom had something to do with it. She’s been a good influence. Where’d my mom pick up this confidence in the kitchen? My grama and thousands of meals worth of practice.
I, like them, have a fearlessness and a way about me in the kitchen. My mom insists she isn’t fearless and that I’m the better cook. I remind her that she fakes fearlessness well and my talents have everything to do with her encouraging me. My parents’ generosity seems to know no bounds. I have two decades of memories of summer fish frys in the backyard, plates and plates of Christmas cookies for friends and teachers, spaghetti dinners before swim meets, and feeding dozens of relatives at family birthdays and holidays.
My mom taught me how to love people with food. I learned how to make people feel welcome and at ease in my home and around my table. I watched her adapt recipes so everyone could eat what we were having. I saw her make special batches of cookies because they were my aunts’ favorites. Right now, she’s learning all she can about gluten- and dairy-free cooking to help my sister heal her body and ease her transition to this new way of eating. I have an amazing role model in this woman, who reminds me that these sorts of things are cultivated in the day-to-day and the special occasions. She reminds to me to keep practicing this art of loving people with food.
And as I have for years now, I practiced this weekend. I made food from scratch. I practiced with white chili, vegetarian chili, cornbread, and orange and cranberry scones. I used beans and chilies and spices and cornmeal and butter. I used my favorite pots and pans and wooden spoons. I used my tiny kitchen filled with Christmas music. I practiced, taking time to taste and add more of whatever was needed.
I practiced by helping someone new feel at ease in my sometimes hard to keep private life. I practiced by recognizing the impressive efforts of a group of young leaders with a home-cooked meal eaten around a crowded kitchen table. I practiced by putting out scones and oranges on the first day of my students’ first finals week to remind them we’re rooting for them. Lots of practicing this weekend.
I’m learning that this practice is best done with simple, thoughtful gestures and simple, good food. So that’s what I will keep making. And will do all I can to remember that I don’t need to make it more complicated. This simplicity is better. It’s enough. I’m enough.
What do I want to learn how to make? Easy. Chewy, crusty bread from scratch and by hand. Made in my yellow apron, in this tiny kitchen. Soon.
Prompt from Jeffrey Davis: Wonder. How did you cultivate a sense of wonder in your life this year?
This whole growing up and into the person I am and want to be is… hard. Or at least I feel like I make it hard. There is a diligence to it, cultivating habits and ways of being, that I often struggle with. I’m good with bursts because bursts are what I know.
I’ve learned this year that these bursts are more inconsistent than I thought and remembered. I’ve learned that rituals and traditions and small shifts, with some bursts mixed in for good measure, help me move toward where I want and need to be with much more ease. A seemingly daunting task of becoming a kinder, compassionate, and deeply joyful woman who does what she says she going to do (for others and for herself)—this process happens more thoughtfully and deliberately and slowly. I’m much more equipped for this pace. And my bursts are more fruitful and bold and genius because I’ve cultivated the space they come from.
So what did I do this year to cultivate wonder? I made a small shift and cultivated a new habit. I made an effort to wonder why those I interacted with did what they did and were the way they were. I wondered what could be true if I asked questions instead of making a quick judgment. I tried to stay curious about human behavior and its motivations.
When someone in my life did something unexpected or hurtful or seemingly stupid, I wondered why. I asked questions. I gave them space to fill in what was going on, to fill in the why, without having to push my judgment or negative assumptions out of the way first.
Did I always succeed in doing this? Of course not. I’m still cultivating this habit of wondering in this way—and trying being kinder with myself and others in the process. When I did succeed and wonder, though, I opened up a space, however small, for to engage and to wonder.
