The First Batch

A new undertaking, long on the list of homestead efforts I’ve set my heart upon.

A favorite cookbook propped open, leaning against the window frame, propped up by a newly potted plant—a once broken stem, wrapped in a soaked towel and entrusted to me by a dear friend, nursed in water, where new roots found the strength to grow, and now it thrives anew.

A beloved cast iron dutch oven—a 30th birthday wish come true. A handmade cutting board—a Christmas gift four years past, etched with the marks of at least 1400 encounters to recall—both prepared for a worthy work.

A bounty of vegetables—which, in a time such as this, I realize emphatically, is not to be taken for granted but instead is held with hands of overflowing gratitude. A cluster of fresh thyme snipped from the garden— a breeze blows the wispy hairs across my face and tosses my skirt with a sort whimsical flourish, a pause at the garden bed to slow down and remember, just as I always try to do, that this is the life from a dream, this is a thousand hopes woven into the every day of my very own life. Snip, snip, snip, and one more pause to catch a glimpse and etch the picture into the memory of my heart: my favorite steel pruners and the dark leafy twigs against the soft linen of a dress I am so proud to have sewn for myself. A Lovely, lovely, picture. But I’m glad for the absence of the camera in the moment.

Back inside, the children just a short distance away (my favorite thing about living tiny; how they are always within my reach) reading stories with their daddy, taking advantage of this time with him and shifting the priority from books to games and giggles. He’d love for them to sleep (he did, after all have his own hopes for a rest) but secretly I’m enjoying the glimpses of smiles and the jolly echo of giggles. For a moment I’d love to steal away from my efforts and take my place amongst the happy trio. But I’ll soon realize there’s no need, as the sly little girls will have whittled their way out of a nap with an inquiry too sweet to deny, “Mama, mama, what are you making? Can we help?”.

The veggies have all been chopped and simmered in olive oil and water has just been added. Two chairs slide from table to counter, “Ooooh is this broth? What did you put in it?…MMM I love onions and carrots and bale [bay] leaves.” I smile especially at the last account. Jonathon once scooped the bay leaf from the soup pot into one our bowls and it has been an everlasting conversation that continues to delight my heart. I do so love toddler inquiry and thought.

As the pot simmered along we turned the page of the cookbook back to another familiar recipe and moved our efforts from the stove to the mixing bowl for fresh batch of cookies to enjoy out on the little foot bridge, warmed by the sun, but still cool in the breeze.

And then back to the first task. Four jars; gathered, cleaned and matched with lids. Liquid strained from the vegetables to fill three jars and a half, each lined up and sparkling honey gold, a perfect match with the beeswax candles standing just behind in their brass holders. Sunlight bouncing through the jars and dancing on the countertops—like a little applause from Mr. Sun. I take a moment to look out the window and give my silent praises back to the sun, thanking him for shining in on my days work, and over my garden, and on the rosy cheeks of my children. Eyes closed for a moment of dreaming forward to the day when the counter will be stocked with vegetables from our own slice of earth, and the sun will dance through newly filled golden jars of our mutual efforts.

And from the golden glow of the window, a flash of yellow, and then another. “Higher daddy, higher!” Just a couple clicks of the shutter from me before I join in the golden delight, a remembrance of my happiest days and the three who make them so.

Three full jars and a half. They joys and prayers within. The slow beauty of daily practices.

The first batch.