This weekend, I had the pleasure of cooking for my guy’s family for the first time. Him and I did it together, making a lovely roast beef. It was soft enough for his grandparents both to eat, and everyone enjoyed themselves. After the meal, while everyone else cleared out, I sat and talked with his grandmother. Her dementia is slipping in, so all stories recur. You watch her joy, sadness, and pride cycle with each story. Each telling adds different details, glacially introducing new stories. She lights up each time she tells me about her grandchildren. She halts each time she mentions deaths, honouring that sadness and those lost. She smirks recounting funny moments of decades past. The stories fill out in my mind, as each iteration brings forth a new emphasis or detail. Slowly, she shares herself, and what she cares about (in a word: family).
As they’re leaving, she holds my hand. Pointing to my guy, her eyes light with mischief and she tells me “he’s in love with you” like it’s a secret and it’s her turn to scream it from the rooftops.
This week, there was nothing big I felt needed to be shared. Just little moments, like the one above. In the same vein, of sharing food with those you love, this post by Shauna Ahern has been one I keep coming back to. She writes about the reintroduction of ritual into their family meals. Friday Pizza Night, Sushi Sunday, Meat & Potatoes Monday. How a plan for each day breeds creativity, while also adding comfort and eliminating waste.