Tonight as I was getting a pot roast ready for the crock-pot (because soccer practice will run till five tomorrow afternoon, and I will be tired and cranky after free-way rush hour traffic on the way home) memories unwound in my mind's eye, brought on by the smell of onion and sound of carrots cut up and look of potato and meat nestled together.
I remember the first crock-pot meal after Paul was born, not ready by dinner time, so we let it cook on low all-night and ate pot roast for breakfast. It smelled so good when we got up, and it was delicious! We were probably starved for protein and iron.
I remember the last crock-pot meal just days before Paul was born, prepared to be ready whenever Bruce's dad and Aunt and Uncle came through town just after his mom died. My own mom helped me get the meat ready to put in, so I learned about browning the roast before slow-cooking it. I remember that it was received so well I kept thinking, "they must be really hungry!" And of course they were. Stress and grief sometimes show up that way.
I remember my grandmother making pot roast with carrots and onions and potatoes. Oh, those potatoes! I wish mine would turn out so golden-delicious-savory like that. I remember her watching with admiration and satisfaction as my dad ate her cooking. I remember sitting at her table, passing food to family, delighted with what was already in front of us and knowing that good dessert was yet to come.
I am blessed by the memories of these women and their teaching of the ministry of food.
I am blessed to know that my husband will be blessed tomorrow when he comes home and smells red meat and vegetables already prepared.
I pray that I can be part of a chain of love, passing on the practical and the spiritual lessons learned in the kitchen.
