It’s a beautiful Saturday morning, and I’ve just returned from a long holiday weekend in Lake Tahoe where I met my first grandchild—an amazing baby girl.
WHOA!
Let’s sit with that a minute. I’m a grandmother. A new season of life begins. It’s been a season of change … very good overall … a little intense … a little wild. I’ve resigned myself to being comfortable with the fact that I never really know what day it is anymore.
Not knowing what day it is—that’s normal for new parents, when the days and nights roll together in one long stream of feedings and diaper changes. I thought I would come to the rescue of the sleep deprived new parents and share my wealth of tips and tricks. That’s the fixer in me. What actually happened was that I realized I didn’t really remember many tips and tricks … and besides that, these new parents already got it.
The one thing I did remember how to do, a little to my surprise, was how to cook dinner. For some time now, perhaps even years, evening meals are not homecooked and are not eaten with my husband. He always seems to be racing in one direction while I’m galloping off in another. We are likelier to grab takeout and eat while standing over the kitchen sink or perched on the edge of the sofa than at the table with real silverware and plates.
However, we do always touch base around five each afternoon. It’s a check-in that has lately become the same conversation. He picks up a hugely overstuffed bowl from Chipotle (the Mexican restaurant chain he pronounces CHI-POT-LLL), and I figure something to round it out from the contents of our refrigerator.
So, I was pleasantly surprised during my visit to Lake Tahoe that I remembered how to make chicken piccata using freshly squeezed lemons and small non-pareil capers one night and slow cooked beef with a rich savory sauce infused with a sprig of fresh thyme and thick-cut carrots, onion, and celery. While I was cooking, I was having fun remembering the “whipped” potatoes my grandmother always made using boiled, peeled Idaho russets whirred with a hand mixer and scalded milk. She always served them piled in a bowl, with a huge pat of butter on the top. This is in comparison to my favorite “smashed” potatoes, which are red potatoes boiled with the skins on and smashed with a fork in the pot and mixed with a few spoons of chopped garlic in olive oil and melted butter.
Cooking nightly meals gave me a purpose and the opportunity to use my love language of service. My new granddaughter is precious and perfect in every way. Her parents love her and care for her in their own way, which is the best way. I love her more than I can explain, and perhaps only other grandparents can understand the love for a grandchild.
I’m not needed to fix anything. My new policy is to pray and love and be comfortable with my children thinking that I know nothing.
