I remember a few childhood afternoons spent roller-skating straight through Raquelle’s lobster-red kitchen, her Italian mother enormously great with child, baby number nine. This sainted woman cradled the phone, laughing as we dipped beneath the mustard cord and sailed beneath her tattered oven mitts, hands that cradled an enormous tray of bubbling lasagna. When we grew tired of lapping their downstairs, we unlaced our skates, padded in our stockinged feet to the laundry room, and ripped open a chocolate cake mix packet for Raquelle’s Easy-Bake oven.
Soon, an army of little brothers clustered round, licking the spoons and swiping the frosting from the bottom of the store-bought cylinder. I marveled at the rising decibels of noise, the utter chaos, and the love fluttering inside their home.
***
Playdates at Andrea’s house were notably different, as her mother preferred painting to domestic duties. Dirty dishes were stacked precariously high in the sink, drinking glasses smeared and foggy, countertops sticky. A Mount Everest-sized laundry pile soared beneath the basement’s laundry chute.
Andrea’s mother chewed her bottom lip, eyebrows rumpled as she toyed with the paisley bandana cinched at the base of her long, pale neck. She was surrounded by clusters of stout jars filled with murky water atop a water-stained dining table that butted up against her broad easel.
When Andrea asked her mother for a snack, she was met with a glare from the short-tempered artist, her words clipped and exasperated. The vibe to seven-year-old me was obvious: children, laundry, cooking, and housework were burdensome distractions. Everything played second fiddle to her creative pleasures.
Given this gloomy internal state of affairs, Andrea and I tumbled outdoors singing The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow at the top of our lungs, pretending we were little Orphan Annie.
The family’s enormous Saint Bernard, Maggy, stood watch, guarding us with mournful eyes.
***
Jeanie, another childhood chum, was a surprise daughter born to old parents. The pair of us squandered afternoons playing chopsticks, fooling around on the baby grand, learning scales, sitting ramrod straight as we swung our legs and clanked away in the immaculate living room. A living room with plush, ivory carpet.
Jeanie grew tired of chopsticks long before I, as did her mother, who shooed the two of us upstairs, while anxiously fingering her strand of pearls: Play something quietly, girls, while I fix a snack.
Soon, the aroma of blueberry muffins filled their home. Muffins, which I knew from prior experience, would be dry as a bone. Jeannie’s mother, soft-spoken and well-bred, was clearly tired, hurrying us to finish, sweeping up our crumbs with a sigh while we were still chewing.
We gulped our apple juice, zipped up our snowsuits, and sped outdoors, grabbing two wooden sleds along the way. As we sailed down the steep back hill, we spoke dreamily of cocoa and marshmallows to ward off winter’s chill. But then I remembered the luxurious carpet, and my delight dimmed.
We would get in trouble for spilling our cocoa.
***
My grandmother was a fine cook. Oh my, I can still taste her melt-in-your-mouth roast with pearl onions and long slices of tender carrot, surrounded by clusters of soft, tiny potatoes. Once Grandpa bowed and offered grace, Grandma disappeared into the narrow kitchen, teasing liquid into gravy. I wandered in once, and only once, mind you, curious. I slipped beside her as she whisked, her tongue pressed between her lips, stirring with gusto.
I must have temporarily forgotten that while cooking was her strong suit, patience was not.
It’s hot, she said. Go sit down.
I crept back into the dining room, as everyone talked loudly over and around each other, scooping potatoes and spearing slices of roast, passing the heavy salt and pepper shakers, slicing and buttering the rolls. Grandma returned, smiling thin, the porcelain gravy boat clutched in her bent, arthritic fingers. Steam puffed delicately from the dish, a fact I noted while blinking back tears.
I longed to explain that I did not mean to get in the way, but instead, I stayed quiet, irritated and confused as I placed the cloth napkin across my lap, forming a perfect rectangle. Across the table, my cousin stared, amused, no doubt, by my threatening tears. He stuck out his tongue and fluttered his hands by his ears. I rolled my eyes and wrinkled my nose.
Life carried on.
***
Recently, with the advent of fall, I decided it was high time to redeem the roast. Beef enveloped by seasoned julienned carrots, alongside new potatoes. Throwing caution to the wind, I upped my game and tinkered around with spices, which proved rewarding. Dare I say better than Grandma’s roast? If not, at least equal. Savory, tender, melt-in-your-mouth forkfuls of delight.
When my pastor-husband and I return from church in the late afternoon, spent, we are welcomed by the warm aroma seeping from the crockpot. I scratch our dog’s ears, slip off my shoes, and shed my earrings. Pulling two bowls from the top shelf, I dish up dinner as Jon turns on the football game. We sink into our chairs and exhale as Jon says grace.
***
I have plans.
Long-term intentions, tiny seeds planted in my grandmother’s kitchen, in Jeanie’s tidy living room, in Andrea’s loveless kitchen, seeds watered while roller skating through Raquelle’s boisterous home. As a child, I bore witness to dozens of matriarchs, reading them like a chapter book…through the warmth of their eyes, the chill in their gaze, the softness of their embrace, the brusqueness of their hands, their carefree laughter or pursed lips, their abandon in serving others joyfully, or their stubborn determination to do whatever they pleased, serving only themselves.
I was a little girl who noticed, paid attention. A child with magnificent dreams of raising a big family. A child who grew up into womanhood, and who by God’s grace became a wife, a mother, a mother-in-law, and a grandmother.
What trail of memories will I leave for my family and friends?
Will they feel cherished, seen, and known?
***
It grieves me to observe so many women chafe beneath God’s precious design for womanhood. If only they could see the endless delight, responsibility, old-fashioned hard work, and immeasurable joy that come in nurturing a godly family; in stitching beauty and order within whatever four walls the Lord provides.
And the grandest kingdom work of all? Crouching low, in order to gently look your children and grandchildren in their eyes, pausing to unhurriedly listen to their hearts, their fears, and their dreams, while teaching them about God with soft, gracious speech.
Kind words, laughter, delicious food, and a comfortably tidy home are powerful weapons against the prince of darkness.
Warm eyes and soft embraces slice straight through worldly chaos: I want you here, I love you, you are dear to me. Take off your shoes and stay awhile.
***
Here is what I now know: a delicious roast, without love, is nothing.
Bubbling lasagna, easy bake cake, without laughter, kindness, and joy, is nothing.
While a dirty home with piles of dishes and dirty laundry is terribly unwelcoming, so is a clean home run by a grumpy, moody mistress.
Hospitality is a happy-hearted servanthood that begins at home, and it will cost me dearly: time, money, planning, and a million deaths to myself. The dividends, however, prove staggering: monumental, cascading through the generations.
My grandchildren will remember my happy heart, my eagerness to play, and the direct eye contact in patiently answering their questions. I have promised to keep their snack drawer and treat jar full, in order to make them feel known and loved. They will believe that they are cherished through my patience, preparedness, and playfulness. How else will they intuit that they are never a nuisance?
My children will remember my interest and love for them through thoughtful questions, listening, encouragement, unexpected gifts, fine coffee, and their favorite foods.
God wields every single circumstance, even the unpleasant ones, to teach us something true, and it is our responsibility to pay attention. The adults of my childhood remind me, even now, of a shadowed reality: Children and grandchildren are perceptive, with memories stretching long.
When my grandchildren one day ask me what I am cooking, I will pause, pull up a chair, and invite them to step up.
May I remember that the secret lies not so much in the spices, but in the love spilling from my heart.
Better is a dinner of herbs where love is than a fattened ox and hatred with it.
-Proverbs 15:17
Home is the place where hungry hearts are fed on love’s bread.
-James Russell Miller
(Top image: Norman Rockwell’s Freedom From Want)
The Palest Ink 