Penne Pasta and the Big Bed

I believe I ended my last post with how much I love Mondays. But let me just say... I love Tuesdays as well. Tuesdays are the nights I can bet on a wonderful meal and conversation with two people who mean more to me than I could ever put into words. My mom is always cooking and my dad is always looking to see what he can help with. He and I are both learning the balancing act of being helpful and being Captain Underfoot, though he has a good bit more experience than me. Guiltily watching my mom rushing around the kitchen, we ate fresh veggies with Raita Dip from Trader Joes that was surprisingly perfect with the cucumbers, grape tomatoes, broccoli, celery, and carrots. Mom made a whole wheat penne pasta dish with a tuscan twist - some white beans were baked in. Homemade lemon-pepper salad dressing over a very simple salad of romaine and heirloom tomatoes was a perfect light compliment to the heavier pasta.

We sat around and talked outside on the porch (amidst the wisteria) and I fought the conflicting urges to go get seconds and to stay put lazily in my chair. My stomach eventually won out and I helped myself to some more carbohydrates for all the runs I'm not running. (Shhhhhhh....)

We came inside to a mountain - and I mean a mountain - of dishes. We're talking K2 or Everest style, not Mt. McKinley. So Dad got going rinsing and I got going drying and our mouths got going chatting. So much of who I am and what I believe is based on the conversations I have had around or beside the dinner table. The kitchen holds the secret formula of what makes me Me. The mountain of dishes melted away as we addressed big and small issues alike. We talked about everything: from overcoming trauma; to forgiveness and family dinners; to the honor system and unspoken rules of decency and tradition at UVA.

Finally we got everything back in its place and then shared a silly moment. My parents just bought a brand new bed to replace the brass bed frame they have had for over 25 years. We all ooohed and aaahed over the size and sophistication of the new King of the house. Then we all sat around on it - sprawled out and everything, playing with the cats and chatting. We were quite comfortable and then I got ready to leave/roll out/peace/bounce.

I kissed my mom goodnight on the cheek as she tucked herself into bed and I laughed. When I was younger and lived at home, I would kiss her goodnight every single night. I don't know when I stopped doing it. It might have been sophomore or junior year in high school. But I did stop. And then I moved away to college and when I was home I was usually out late and the opportunity and thought to kiss her goodnight had faded away. Over the past two years I have been home more regularly (sometimes even routinely) and have started saying goodnight again. The closeness we have always shared is there in that last moment before she calls it a day. She is my mother - but she is my friend. And I laughed because it was so easy and pure. It was so natural - it was like muscle memory on an emotional scale.