The other night, I experienced the leisurely cooking of a meal as I talked to TJ after his arrival home from work. The kids were off playing alone or with one another. I was less interested in their exact locations than in the fact that somehow, I had made it to this point. I could cook and think and talk, alone or with this man, and our responsibilities for children were momentarily called off.
A few minutes of kitchen work is a dose of peace, love, and happiness. I have this rhythm and I know how to keep it. I have this reason for being here, and the hunger never ceases. No matter how much I do to fill bellies, they empty again and around we go.
Yet this is a stop and go I enjoy with surprising measure. I measure two teaspoons of apple cider vinegar into a tiny glass, add room temperature water, and drink for health. I measure two teaspoons of coconut oil into the Vitamix for my daily bulletproof coffee. I make TJ’s two eggs in butter, overeasy. I open the dishwasher and get out four glasses, one jar, two coffee cups, five small plates, one large plate, one big fork, one small fork, and the green silicone spatula. I know my particulars and I keep my practices strong.
This is nobody’s breakfast but mine and those in my care. It is insignificant to my neighbors and friends that our day begins each day the same, with no-bake bars, muffins, cloth napkins, and The Greenville News, but these gestures are gifts. These are the distinctions that keep us coming down the stairs each morning, wanting to be together, playing our parts, and preparing our hearts for taking the peace of the morning out into the world with us.
And by late afternoon, when there’s little peace of mind left because my brain has done a thousand laps over the maps of education, entertainment, emotions, and everything else, I send the kids off to play and head back to the kitchen, to this realm of routine and relaxation. I work hard to feed us well, and the work feeds me, and I am at peace.