"To the Frig and Back Again...a Cook's Tale"

Sunday mornings are the best times in the week. No phone alarms buzzing, no rushing off to work, just relaxing. Since Sarah is also home I like to dress up our usually easy breakfasts. I had watched a box of pancake mix sit and sit in our fridge because we never had time to make them. So after rolling out of bed, I shuffled into the kitchen and opened the frig. My tired eyes glanced around and then locked onto the box of mix. Yes! This is a perfect time to make them. I pulled it out and read thru the recipe on the box. [No matter how easy or frequently I make a thing, if there is instructions I'm sure to find and read them.] I whipped them up, put them in the warm oven, and went back to the frig. Nectarines and grapes were our fruit on hand and being that this was a special meal I got both out for a fruit platter. FIY, fruit or veggie platters have always been my go-to when I spice up a otherwise boring meal. Something about sweet colorful fruit/veggies cut up and laid out makes it more then an average fare. By the time I fried up the sausage and eggs, my banging around had gotten Sarah up. She had a dazed look when she sleepily asked "What are you doing?" "Breakfast" I chimed back. I was now in the full swing of things and breakfast was almost done. I pulled the plates from the warm oven and set it on our table. Getting the syrup from the cupboard, I opened the lid, drizzling it all over the pancakes. "Well, let's see how this stuff tastes!" and in we dove.     

Our mother called shortly afterward to inform us that they would be coming to our church. She asked Sarah what we were up to and Sarah told her about my wild hair in making breakfast. I chuckled to myself and thought of my mom. How many things did I imitate from her this morning. The idea to make breakfast, or was it warming the plates in the oven, or was it doing the fruit platter? I quickly came to the fact that the whole thing was all from mom. How many mornings as a child had I awoke to the sound of kitchen utensils and the smell of frying bacon. Laying in bed trying to confirm that it was indeed coming from our house. And then, finally bearing it no longer, rushing into the kitchen. Seeing my mom in her bathrobe carefully flipping the bacon with one hand and pouring pancake batter with the other. Countless times I had watched her and countless times I had helped. Her method of 'warming the plates' was always a terrifying experience. To her if the food was warm the plates must be warm. So at the beginning of the meal preparation, the plates would go into a warm oven, later to be joined with the cooked food.  More often then not the plates came out scorching hot and we all had to use hot pads to move them once on the table. And even though we always razzed her about this, I don't think the meal would have been as special without it. When we did finally sit down, the table was a bountiful spread of home cooked food. From the warmed syrup to the artistic fruit platter to the cloth napkins, all these little things that let you know that you were loved. I never quite understood how or why she would spontaneously do things like this. They were always on ordinary days and totally unplanned. But this Sunday morning when I followed in her footsteps I understood why. We both communicate our love and care in the same way, though acts of service**.

**"The Five Love Languages" by Gary Chapman, I highly recommend it.