Macaroni and Cheese

(A re-post from the archives today as I spend my time nursing a sick little one back to health.  Thoughts of what it means to be a nurturing mother on my mind for sure.  I hope you enjoy this post.  Thank you for grace!)

I can still remember how she looked, standing over the hot stove. Baby on her hip, she danced to a rhythm all her own.

Sway, stir, stir. Sway, stir, stir.

I'd peer at myself reflected in the shiny black face of the oven door, making up stories and plays, and periodically glancing up at her swaying and stirring above me. I'd press my paw-hands up against the warmth radiating down from the stovetop, and wonder if I'd have have slender fingers like she had, holding the wooden spoon so gently.

She never measured anything. A little of this, a little of that, somehow coming together in the form of the perfect comfort food. She'd sway, stir, and sometimes sing. And it always came out tasting just the same: like love and hugs and toasty nights snuggled on the couch.

As a teenager and then newlywed, I was annoyed when I'd ask for a recipe and she would give it to me, but then amend the whole thing by saying "...but I never do it that way." I'd try and try again to attain the taste I remembered so well, but to no avail. Until...

Somewhere in another kitchen, in another time, a Mama is swaying, stirring and humming along, stopping only to kiss the baby's head as she puts a little of this and a little of that in the pot. Sway, stir stir. Sway, stir stir. This oven has no black door to act as a mirror, but another little girl is nearby nonetheless, playing on the floor and, every now and then, glancing up to take in the sights and smells of the kitchen on a sunny afternoon.

Somehow it happened, and I can now conjure the taste of love, hugs, and snuggles. And when my daughter asks what the recipe is, I'll give it to her and then say..."but I never make it that way."

And hopefully, someday, she'll figure it out, too.

One of my favorite parts about having children is the ability to relive my childhood through the eyes of my mother.