“I love it when you make pies–the house smells so good when you do!” said each child, one after another, traipsing through the kitchen.
And it does. Right now there is a pumpkin pie and an apple pie in the oven and stew on the stove and I am sitting here starving, waiting with great anticipation of a meal prepared well.
This doesn’t happen often around here, at least not as often as it could or even (and I hate this word) should.
Chef’s surprise is the standard meal around here–it’s a surprise that there is dinner, in the first place, that it is edible, in the second. I cook as I do most everything: assess the situation and the ingredients available, come up with a plan, and execute said plan. This is why I rarely have an answer when the question “what’s for dinner?” is posed to me by anyone under the age of 18.
“What’s for dinner?” they ask and I shrug my shoulders and with my mouth twisted sideways, pondering if there is a name for the thing I am concocting, then respond simply with “food.”
They hate that-and that’s only part of the reason I answer that way.
But for now, there is stew on the stove and pies in the oven and the house smells yummy as we all anticipate being comfortably full with food that has a name. And because this does not happen often enough, I will savor not just the food, but the making of it and what is made by it. For now, this moment, is a little slice of what I imagine people think of when they think of heaven. For now, this is living.