washing lettuce and a fifty-degree afternoon

I find such profound satisfaction in preparing dinner some nights. Tonight, for instance, I stood at the sink washing lettuce, the frigid water numbing my knuckles, and reveled in the delight of it. I had chicken sizzling in a skillet, souped up with garlic and oregano, and I had red and yellow peppers and a purple onion to chop. Setting the table, filling our glasses, grabbing a trivet, I felt competent. I felt like I was taking care of things, feeding myself and my love something genuinely good.

This connects, I think, not only to the fresh hint-of-spring day we had, but also to my recent reading of The Little House Cookbook, a childhood favorite. This paperback borrows Garth Williams's delightful illustrations from Laura Ingalls Wilder's books and provides recipes for the myriad foods mentioned (and lushly described) in the books.

I think the deep satisfaction in providing food for people I care about is also rooted in a history of family women who cook. My great-grandma always fed us when we visited. She had one of those old-fashioned cookie jars that was never empty. Does anyone even keep a cookie jar anymore? My grandma, too, has always been one to feed: she kept this extensive vegetable garden when I was young, and an herb garden (I remember the sharp tang of dill), and a flower garden. She also kept a freezer stocked with fudgesicles and cabinets full of trail mix and yogurt-covered raisins. My mom and my aunts, too, are masters in the kitchen. They turn out mythically wonderful meals for holidays and visits and, dare I say, normal life. They grow things, chop and simmer and bake, offer second helpings, and know how to enjoy the fruits of their labor. I am so blessed by their example.