It was Sunday morning, our final day in San Francisco. The white fog was comfy on the hills beyond the condo’s windows. Sutro Tower was nowhere in sight. A sweet redheaded pal lay beside me with patterned breaths.
There have been many perks to marrying into Chris’ family. High up there is his mom’s cooking. As I’ve mentioned before, I took the “This isn’t how my mom’s tasted…” comments early in our marriage in stride. Primarily because I was trying to achieve exactly that – her recipes – because they taste so good. I did not grow up with a casserole menu. I grew up on the soup pot menu – got a few things, throw them in a pot and hope for the best because that’s what mom made for Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday…
Cornfields are swishing by. The sky is a beautiful blue puffed with bright clouds. Train tracks race beside our car as the kids are engrossed in activities within the car. It is a calm scene that lasts all of three minutes before someone has dropped a cup, cracker toughs need refilling, a baby has pooped.
Sometimes life requires a change of scenery. One doesn’t have to travel far (’cause Lord knows traveling too far can get ugly with kids and takes a certain mental preparedness…or moment of insanity). My favorite and most energized mother in law, a.k.a. “Grandma”, had the fun idea of heading over the bridges and through the tunnels to Hampton. A mere thirty minutes away. She packed us PBJs and grapes while I packed kids and all that goes with four critters between the ages of 0-6 (cousin Savannah was with us too! yay!) to Bluebird Gap Farm.
Warmed ovens. Chilled dough. Accoutrements galore. Stools pulled to counters. Books stacked in chairs for little buddies to participate fully. Patient, loving, hands guiding smaller ones from step to step; rolling out dough, cutting into fun shapes, decorating little master pieces. It was the traditional cookie day of my childhood. We would go to a family friends’ house, the Moss, to busy ourselves between sugary recipes galore. My mom needed the reinforcements to accomplish such a task and we are forever grateful to Mrs. Moss for allowing us to dirty up her kitchen every Christmas season.