I cooked dinner for my parents last night. It’s far from the first time I’ve cooked for them, but it was the first time I cooked for them while hosting them in my own home. Strange the difference that makes.
Growing up, I was my Mom’s shadow in the kitchen. I watched as she tasted, adjusted, and cooked the best foods. Except for stewed squash and tomatoes, I never did learn to like those. I joke that I only helped her with cooking because it often got me out of cleaning. But, dash of this by pinch of that, I learned how to cook.
After I moved out, I would still come home and help Mom cook. Sometimes I would take the lead, but mostly she did. Recreating childhood favorites, preserving memories in meals cooked once more. Laughter spicing the smell of hot oil ready for frying. Love in the kitchen.
Last night I cooked for them, with B serving as my shadow. Mom and Dad watched and we all chatted around the counter. I’ll have to try that was uttered more than once. Laughter and shared memories now linger in my kitchen. The heart of the home is in the kitchen, and my kitchen now has more heart.