Tell me, will you, what could possibly trump an afternoon of changing sheets, smooshing meatloaf into a pan with your bare hands, smelling the sweet aroma of squash boiling on the stove, and feeling a summer breeze blowing through the window? This is how I spent my afternoon today—-ideal for me, seeing that this is all I’ve ever wanted out of life: caring for a home, fixing meals, doing laundry, stirring up dust, and unclogging garbage disposals; chasing kids, practicing patience, and waiting to flirt with my husband when he comes in the door; counting to ten in frustration, stifling tears to masquerade for strength, and not choosing to stuff my feelings deep down whenever things go wrong; clipping recipes and coupons, saying "I Love You" 24 times a day, trying to stay awake during movies, trying to remember what it was like the day before meeting the love of my life and moving a little closer to him every time I remember; sneaking time to write in the evenings when the kids have gone to bed, and trying everyday to be a better wife and mom and woman. That, in a nutshell, was what I’ve always wanted out of life. Maybe one day I’ll have that, maybe one day I won’t. That’s beside the point. I’m single for now-- and I was making supper wasn’t I?
Well, I called my mom 3 times in the process of making my dinner—just to make sure. “No, eggs won’t expire that quickly." "Yes, it’s okay if the hamburger is just a little brown." "Just add a little more cornstarch to stiffen up the squash casserole.” These are her recipes, after all and, let’s face it, I can never quite get my food to taste like hers. But her recipes are just another way I’m patching together a home of my own with the pieces of others—my aunt’s bedroom furniture, my grandmother’s table, my mom’s recipes, my friend’s Crockpot.
Aren’t all homes only collages of the home of others’?