When My Food Relationship Met Me In The Kitchen

At coffee the other day, a friend said how she believes that everyone has a very unique and personal relationship with food. While she talked about this, I was completely on the same page in one respect and could see how this is true for most everyone I know, yet I couldn't see how it was true for me. A few days later Matt and I were in my favorite little stop for breakfast and coffee after church. I love this place because it feels so old fashioned. And when they are out of fresh brewed coffee they offer you things like French Press and bottomless cups to make up for you having to wait. Everything is baked fresh, and coffee is poured with such care. I love this little place and its parchment paper, mix matched mugs, vintage jars, french press, brown sugar cubes, hand sewn aprons, and my favorite eggs benedict florentine. And on that Sunday morning, I realized that I do in fact have a very personal relationship with food, and that what my friend said in that coffee shop days earlier, was very very true for me.

She was right about everyone's relationship being unique. For some it might be the process of baking, and the taste of time and labor and effort finally enjoyed when sitting down. And for others it might be the tradition, being taught recipes passed down from their mother, and her mother, and their grandmother's mother. Or the first bite, the gathering around a table, the community that food means. The gratitude and joy that one can have a meal before them, even if it's a box of mac n' cheese with hot dogs. The relationship of nourishment and thankfulness with each bite. Whatever it may be, there is a relationship that is personal and unique. And for me, that day in my favorite little place, I realized that food and I have a ways to go. That I have walls up, and boundaries that I don't like to cross. I love the visual and the nostalgic of baked goods, yet I do not like the mess and have never found satisfaction in baking. I love the first bite of a warm out of the oven cookie, but I don't fully enjoy the process of getting there. Food has mostly been a means of nourishment for me, and while I delight in sitting down at a table for community and gathering over a warm plate, that is the extent of my relationship. The process hasn't come to fruition, and my ability to relax and enjoy cooking and baking has yet to show up most days. And while I waited for my fresh cup of coffee at my favorite little place after church this week, deep down in my heart I made a deal. I want to remedy it. I want to build my relationship with baking and cooking, so that one day, my children and husband can see joy pouring out of me while I'm in the kitchen.

I feel silly writing this, but I find that when its uncomfortable to write or seems so left field, that that's really when I need to write it. So I'll share with you how I took a baby step in my relationship with food that day. I stepped into my kitchen later on that Sunday afternoon, vulnerable and open armed, ready to bake. And I did not bake a pie crust from scratch, but went in with a basic plan--to make something I've been eyeing but hadn't the courage to bake because of my lack of one on one time with recipes. Something simple and visually appealing. Muffin tins in hand, pre-made cookie dough, brownie mix, and oreos met me in my kitchen. I fastened my favorite apron around my neck and waist, set the oven to 350, and baked. I made a deal that day, and I've made a promise to myself that I'm going to work at it. Some days, I might not want to. But for my relationship with food--to get to that place of joy while in the kitchen and not just while at the table and at the end when everything is pretty--its going to take discipline and time. Although I might not aspire to be a food blogger or the person who hosts Thanksgiving, I do aspire to be a woman who exudes a deep down joy while in the kitchen. A women who has no walls and boundaries, but can come as she is and take delight while mixing batter round and round, standing barefoot, and licking the spoon clean while dirty dishes pile high.

Home and Dutch Apple Pie

I used to be that girl, at eight year old slumber parties, who would miss her mom and want to go home in the middle of the night. Miss home and want to skip out on feeling uncomfortable in an unknown place. Sometimes I would get to go home. My mom, or dad, would drive and pick me up. And I felt safe. But eventually, I had to stay the night. I grew up, and eventually slumber parties were no big thing when it came to being away from home.

And I'm learning that for the past four years, having moved every year, that I have had a difficult time feeling like I'm home. Sometimes I've felt like I want to cry, or maybe I do, because I want to feel like I'm truly home. 

There is something about the home you grow up in, or spend most of your years in, or perhaps more the comfort of a mom or a dad, that sometimes lingers longer into adulthood than we like. And we have to grow up, and eventually have our new homes become no big thing, because, well, they are home now.

But I ache sometimes. And as embarrassing as it is to say it, its been a journey to not feel homesick. Even now, as much as I love Colorado, I get that feeling every so often that I want to call, get picked up, and go home. But then tonight, as I walked into the kitchen, with all of the lights off in our house, Matt asleep on the couch, the dim stove light on, and opened the refrigerator door for my second piece of dutch apple pie (hey, it's my birthday), this overwhelming feeling of home gently hit me as I sliced into the crumbly pie topping and slipped it onto a clean white plate. It all felt familiar. Like what the home I always miss feels like. And I felt safe. 

I know that sometimes I might be homesick for my old home--yet I feel that tonight I was given a gift. A moment where I felt overwhelmingly thankful for the home that we have here, and what that finally feels like after so many years of moving from town to town. What a perfect gift to receive on my birthday.

Venturing West (Disclaimer: This One Wanders)

Almost a month ago now, we ventured West. We packed up the car, stuffed Shelby in the backseat, intentionally planned out our music for the 17 hour drive ahead, and mapped out our camp site. Everyday, I plan to write about this trip. Everyday, I plan to get away and reflect on our adventure--finally putting the story in words. Yet, I can never get to it. I have yet to even upload all the photos from the scenic stops where we stood jaws dropped, astounded by our country's beauty--and with the week I've had, I could probably use a little reminder of creation and its majesty.

But life is a little bit jam packed right now. 

And although I'd love it to be, blogging is not my full time job; and writing, editing, and doing both well are on pause for a moment. You see, I decided a while ago that it is better, for me as a writer, to wait for that time I can really get away and focus on whatever creative part of the process it is rather than rush and post something for the sake of having daily content. And my desire is that, as readers, you are okay with that. So, California, and the stories, the camping, the photographic journey--all of that is waiting patiently for the afternoon or moment that I can escape and put pen to paper, fingers to editing tools, and mind to blogging.