scribblechic

Recently my husband acknowledged a desire to cook that spoke to a richer passion; restless and playful he was looking for a creative outlet outside the normal pieces of his day. This expression of want was a demonstration of need; an interest that extended beyond caring for our nutrition or assuming a new responsibility, this was a request to interrupt the expectation of sameness with something unknown.

I welcomed his enthusiasm with gratitude for a reprieve. The endless monotony of what to make and who to please, what to buy and the practicality of small details weighed on my mind weekly. The joy of creating meals that cared for my family had become overshadowed by an empty appreciation for a thankless task. There was no stubborn pride or sense of fulfillment to defend against sharing this responsibility; it was with relief that I differed our dinnertime quandary into his able hands.

It has been inspiring watching my husband search for meal ideas and gather recipes into a grocery list; endearing to watch his large frame fill the familiar corner of my space with clumsily careful attention to detail. I have done my best to refrain from interfering by projecting my experiences onto his discovering, resisting the temptation to commandeer his efforts with hijacked enthusiasm. Instead I keep to my perch on the periphery of his play, reminded how often we need to push against routine with reckless curiosity to broaden our expectations.

I have rediscovered an appreciation for a previously dreaded hour and gained a new experience of our time gathered over a meal. I am falling in love with my husband’s open-minded perspective and my children’s generous encouragement. We are dwelling longer at the table and embracing the mystery of unfamiliar foods with a sense of adventure and appreciation for the care it takes to create something new.

Dinner has once more become a service of love, an act of play, and cause for joy.