Being: Conscious, mortal existence; life.
Every month we welcome two families, two people, two voices to share their stories in whatever way they chose. We hope that you find joy in their daily lives, and their simple habit of just being.
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“Sharing our meals should be a joyful and a trustful act, rather than the cursory fulfillment of our social obligations.”
MFK Fisher
I have gentle memories of my childhood when my mother would engage in what we fondly called ‘fishes and loaves-ing’ a meal. I swear she was possessed by some measure of magic: She would start with a seemingly insignificant amount of food, scour pantry, freezer, and fridge for add-ons, and transform paltry into a feast aplenty for five.
And I think she may have passed an ounce or two of her magic onto me, for I find myself in my mother’s shoes as often as twice a week.
Thanks to my mothers’ culinary sorcery, I’ve been well indoctrinated into the desire to feed others. I adore packing lunches for my love, stirring pots of hearty stews for hours, baking a fresh loaf of bread that crackles as it cools. I pore over the internet, ogling the so called ‘food porn’, pining recipes that make mouths water.
But it isn’t the act of cooking itself that I find so deeply fulfilling, but rather I relish the opportunity to fortify someone I love. There is an intrinsic intimacy that occurs when sharing a home-cooked meal, a sense of ‘this is for you, your well-being. I made this to feed your body, mind, and soul’.
Just this morning, I welcomed 4 friends into our home for a spontaneous Sunday brunch. They watched me cook, offering their assistance where they could—hungry eyes looking on in patient waiting. We broke bread, shared fluffy egg frittata, giggled over pancakes. Those two hours transcended time, albeit briefly. We forgot that our close friend was deploying in 48 hours, ignored our graduate coursework without anxiety, and lost ourselves in each other’s company.
At the conclusion, we returned to the regularly scheduled programming of our lives with some measure of heaviness in our hearts. Watching my friends leave, I was truly content. We’d been present, shared ourselves with one another, and truly found a moment of peace.
This month we are welcoming Makenna here as a guest contributor to the Being series. Makenna lives in Georgia, and is an Adjunct Professor and Doula. You can check up on her at her personal blog, CALL SIGN: Wife and we hope that you’ll return here each Monday in August for her reflections.
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Rhythm of the Home is an online magazine for families that focuses on creating with children, nature explorations, seasonal celebrations, conscious parenting, and mindfulness in all that we do. To learn more about us, please visit us on Facebook,Pinterest, and Twitter.
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{ 3 comments }
This was so beautiful! I don’t particularly love to cook either but there is something so satisfying about bringing comfort and good food to those we love. My grandmother had 8 children and I swear that woman has continued cooking as though they all still live at home…always pies and casseroles tucked away into the freezer with the mind to share them with loved ones. I find it much easier to do this in the Autumn/Winter, always with a big pot of something on the stove. This was so nice to read!
Thank you Katie for your kind words. I’m lucky to have a history of cooking and a mother who’s skills at cooking from the hip are simply exquisite.
Thanks for stopping by and reading.
Hi Makenna,
I was lucky to have it read to me by you last night! I did not know it was on the internet too. You have quite a way with words. Beautifully written. I myself do not love cooking, but my cousin Mike is a great cook and when I visited him in Idaho a few years ago I loved to watch him cook and to eat his delicious masterpieces. I think someone who does not like to cook appreciates someone who does and does it well even more. He gives me recipes but I always tell him to make them simple or I will not make them. So I totally see what you mean about loving to feed someone. I know I sure appreciate it! Keep on writing & cooking Makenna. Love, Diane.
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