When I was younger, much younger, I had a sort of Sunday morning ritual. I cooked, cooked big. My husband would be out running his Sunday 10 miles. Two of my children (the last was not yet present) would be peacefully watching television. I would be in the kitchen, Aaron Neville cranking in the background, and me presiding over a pasta machine making that week's Sunday dinner. The spaghetti sauce would be bubbling, I had the freshly made noodles all laid out on the table and I would be working on a dessert. The scene was one of domestic bliss. This was a weekly event for me having learned to cook this way from my mother-in-law. It was my way of giving my husband a part of his childhood he loved so much. It was a way to recreate a happy time for him and create that same existence in our life together.
I was up early this morning, standing at the counter in the kitchen, and my mind went back to those days. I thought about how different my life is now. My husband was out on the deck drinking coffee. He no longer can run with his bad knees. He was out there talking on the phone in preparation for his day of work. He wasn't particularly chatty with me before the phone call, something that seems all to common lately. My two older children are both moved out of the house and my youngest is still at a friend's having spent the night there. The pasta machine is in a closet collecting dust and I am standing in silence, no music is playing anywhere, in a house quiet and still. I pulled out a large pot and started boiling water. I would not be making homemade pasta today but I would be making something nice.
I started boiling lasagna noodles to make a rollentini that I will stuff with ricotta cheese mixed with some egg. parsley, mozzarella & Romano cheese. I chopped some zucchini, red onion and tomatoes and tossed in olive oil & balsamic vinegar, oregano and shredded mozzarella. I sliced some strawberries and drizzled them with Marsala wine. I made a vanilla pudding. I stood back after putting everything back into the refrigerator for later and thought about what I had done. Thought about why I had done it.
While I was cooking my husband went out the door. He had a quick goodbye for me and a kiss on my cheek that was mostly in my hair. I watched him go and studied his face, trying to gauge his expression. He seemed to have a hint of longing on his face. I think he thinks I am going to serve all of this for dinner today and he will miss it as he won't be home until late tonight. He didn't say anything but I suspect his thoughts. That put a wry smile on my face as the door shut behind him. There's no one here to eat all of this food.
I don't cook because I like doing it. I don't feel a passion for it. Cooking is something I could happily give up and not miss. Despite this feeling I cook almost every day and I cook well. I cook with my heart. It's my language, my love language. It's my way of showing love and care for those I love and care about. The passion is not in the cooking but in what I feel for the ones I am cooking for. That's what that wry smile was about as I watched my husband go out of the door. After all of these years and all of that cooking ....I am not entirely sure my husband really understands the language I speak. The language I have spoken all of these years.
I am not entirely sure he even speaks the same language that I do.
I was up early this morning, standing at the counter in the kitchen, and my mind went back to those days. I thought about how different my life is now. My husband was out on the deck drinking coffee. He no longer can run with his bad knees. He was out there talking on the phone in preparation for his day of work. He wasn't particularly chatty with me before the phone call, something that seems all to common lately. My two older children are both moved out of the house and my youngest is still at a friend's having spent the night there. The pasta machine is in a closet collecting dust and I am standing in silence, no music is playing anywhere, in a house quiet and still. I pulled out a large pot and started boiling water. I would not be making homemade pasta today but I would be making something nice.
I started boiling lasagna noodles to make a rollentini that I will stuff with ricotta cheese mixed with some egg. parsley, mozzarella & Romano cheese. I chopped some zucchini, red onion and tomatoes and tossed in olive oil & balsamic vinegar, oregano and shredded mozzarella. I sliced some strawberries and drizzled them with Marsala wine. I made a vanilla pudding. I stood back after putting everything back into the refrigerator for later and thought about what I had done. Thought about why I had done it.
While I was cooking my husband went out the door. He had a quick goodbye for me and a kiss on my cheek that was mostly in my hair. I watched him go and studied his face, trying to gauge his expression. He seemed to have a hint of longing on his face. I think he thinks I am going to serve all of this for dinner today and he will miss it as he won't be home until late tonight. He didn't say anything but I suspect his thoughts. That put a wry smile on my face as the door shut behind him. There's no one here to eat all of this food.
I don't cook because I like doing it. I don't feel a passion for it. Cooking is something I could happily give up and not miss. Despite this feeling I cook almost every day and I cook well. I cook with my heart. It's my language, my love language. It's my way of showing love and care for those I love and care about. The passion is not in the cooking but in what I feel for the ones I am cooking for. That's what that wry smile was about as I watched my husband go out of the door. After all of these years and all of that cooking ....I am not entirely sure my husband really understands the language I speak. The language I have spoken all of these years.
I am not entirely sure he even speaks the same language that I do.
Indeed.
2 comments:
I nearly wept reading that. Seems we have yet another thing in common. pssst, can I come and help eat it all?
I don't think I could simply cook well because I love people. I can certainly put more effort into cooking for someone I know will enjoy what I make, and make it better and easier for knowing it will be well received.
Food is a vocabulary though isn't it. Nothing says "give me space, I'm feeling down" more than a small tub of Hagen Daz, nothing says "Share - my friends, for all is well" like a box of doughnuts, or danish in the office. They are extremes, and all manner of other gestures come in food. The quiet corner of Cadburys as a reward to a good kid, the cup of tea to someone who is upset, the hand picked liqueurs to show love. It's a language, but to me it's not the language you make it sound.
I don't think I'm missing out, as I have other dialects I speak. They may be errand running, or listening, or taking care of chores. Stuff I don't enjoy, but can do because I know it is appreciated.
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