Today is the first day of summer.
It feels like a different kind of day than when the kids were young. Back then, the first day of summer meant no more racing out the door in the morning and no more evenings of drive-through dinners and sports practice. As the days grew longer, life slowed down and it allowed us to regroup and spend quality time together. Today, my work/life routine doesn’t change much just because it’s summer. But things feel a little different. Maybe it’s the change in the air, or the changes under our roof, but the first day of summer has sparked a new rush of energy.
When everyone else seems to greet the summer with foreboding, I can’t get outside enough. (Fun fact: Temperatures in July and August in Florida average in the high 90s with 80% humidity, and the sun can char your skin to blisters in under an hour.)
My perfect start to the day is to be outside. One of my favorite spots is the little bistro chair and table in our atrium, where I can watch a family of cardinals flit to and from the bird feeder and their nest in the potted Ficus tree. A close second is a lounge chair by the pool, being lulled by the sounds of the water and the ocean breeze as it meanders through amazingly tall palm trees. There is something about being outside and the beauty of the natural world that reminds me that we are all connected. It renews feelings of hope, empathy, and creativity.
When I can no longer outsmart the sun with strategically placed umbrellas, I retreat inside to resume my organizing project. Surprisingly, organizing can be creative! I’ve found several projects that, for one reason or another, were never finished … and some of which are better left undone. Like the resin molds and tiny plastic bugs that must have been purchased as favors or decorations for a Halloween party. Ice cubes with bugs frozen inside no longer seem important.
But then I found the box that was filled with cards, clippings, and scraps covered with handwritten notes—my favorite recipes and recipes that have been passed down for generations. At the back of the box, I found recipes and party notes from my mom’s seventieth birthday party, when her three brothers and two sisters crammed into our house and played music, ate, and shared memories. I made Aunt Crista’s Eggs Marguerite and Oma’s Almond Cake for brunch.
For our daughter’s college graduation, we had a Mexican-themed “Taco-Bout-A-Party.” I made Tres Leches Cake for the first time, and packed individual cellophane bags with homemade churro popcorn to snack on as we waited for her to cross the stage and collect her diploma.
Looking through the recipe box, I was overcome with memories of special days and shared meals. For years, I was an adventurous cook and baker. So many of my memories of family and friends are centered around the table.
I can’t put my finger on the exact date when things changed, but slowly, once the kids left the nest, I began cooking and entertaining less and less. We rarely eat at the dining room table anymore ... or even at the kitchen table, for that matter. Now that it’s just the two of us, we eat in front of the TV, balancing plates on our laps while catching up on the news of the day.
Last Sunday, I watched a church service on the YouTube channel that our church started during the Covid pandemic. Watching a church service at home rather than actually going to church is another bad habit I never would have let the kids get away with.
And then a slide appeared to alert viewers that it was time for communion. A time to gather and remember.
That communion slide and the discovery of my recipe box felt like an epiphany. Just like being outside, sharing food together renews feelings of hope, empathy, and creativity. Food is a reminder of our humanity.
And it starts with bread and wine.
