A House is not a Home Until …

Until you cook in it.

I moved. This has been the most protracted, glacially-paced move ever. I think it will be several more months before all of our possessions are located on one piece of property. I am hopeful this co-location will coincide with a transfer of the original property to a new owner and an end to paying two mortgages. But for now, in terms of where I lay my head each night, I moved.

Moving is a wrenching process. I loved many things about where I lived: I loved my woods, my well-established routines and the easy comfort that house offered, being new, clean, efficient and well-built. My new house possesses none of those qualities. My life is all topsy turvy, and my husband has just left for a three week training course, leaving me here alone with only remembered verbal instructions on how to shoot the gun and how to replace the bathroom vanity. Plumbing and firearms – what else could I possibly need?

The first thing I did here was to bake bread. I had a mixing bowl. I couldn’t find my loaf pans so muffin tins meant rolls. I didn’t have any recipe books so I was winging it. I have more frozen foods than my freezer can accommodate (we haven’t move the chest freezer yet) so I selected some frozen butternut squash. I had some milk that was headed south quickly. And I have honey. Lots of honey. Welcome to the life of the beekeeper’s wife.

I made butternut squash rolls, christening the oven and filling the house with the scent of yeast and happiness.

This evening I made meyer lemon marmalade to go with the rolls. It was a first attempt and won’t exactly win any prizes at the county fair, but it is sweet and bitter and sour and homemade. I’ll eat it on my homemade bread and be deliriously happy, looking out my window at a huge bowl of sky, a mountain named Moon, my two ponds that refuse to melt despite the date, and all the other trappings of my new Queendom.

I make things all the time. Words, earrings, messes… But making food is a special and unique way to express creativity. It is a literal means to recreating yourself. It is powerful, simple, and sublime in the truest sense of the word.

I am home. Come on over for some grub.




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1 Response to A House is not a Home Until …

  1. Nancy says:

    This almost made me want to go in my kitchen, get out my bowls, the eggs, some flour, the yeast…etc…but then, I snapped right back into my senses and thought….oh hell no….after cooking everyday for the past 27 yrs (with the occasional out to dinner on the weekends or fend for yourself ) now that I have only myself to worry about since a divorce and then this past January when I knew it was time I could no longer take care of my 93 yr. old mother and moved her into a facility for Dementia Care, I have come to the conclusion that unless I totally have to, I can throw together a nice salad ( I’ll pass on the freshly baked bread)or a bowl of cereal and some fruit or some roasted veggies and be completely satisfied not turning on the oven and how much I enjoy that!!! I am no longer the Domestic Goddess I once was! Enjoy your new living quarters!!!!

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