If anyone ever cared to ask me what is the most common question asked of you during a day I would have to say that it is; What's for Dinner? I am so accustomed to it by now that it does not phase me in the least. In fact, even when I do not know what is for dinner, even if I have not given it the slightest thought I will, as I respond, conjure up, on the spot, a fantastic sounding meal based on the ingredients available in the fridge at that given time and of course have to end up making it. Take today for example. I was asked; what's for dinner on two occasions. My response from the top of my head was Tomates Farcies - lamb, basil, shallots, garlic, tomato pulp, thyme and a little white wine, stuffed into lightly blanched tomatoes over pasta with parmesan cheese. The reaction was as expected. Full and unadorned expectation. But I am used to this. I would not do it unless I wanted to eat it myself. So I throw all of my energy into what is on the table. I love cooking.
The chickens are thriving. And they represent a new era in this Windsong house and we are all in raptures over them because they add a new dimension to this land. The clucking and the pecking seems new and full of possibility and I dream of large brown eggs and the cakes that I will bake as a result.
Morning was special. I rose a little later than I wanted to. I had an exam and my head was teeming with facts. I came down the stairs just as my youngest son was going up. He said to me; you are going down and I am going up. I said; come back down for five minutes - talk to me. He agreed and followed me down the hall to the kitchen where I put the Bialetti on to brew. He sat at the table and we said little. I asked him about his morning. He told me. I don't recall what else we talked about, nothing in particular at all, it was just all about catching some time with him before he left me and I left him and our day became a whirl of activity, of leaving behind. Our silence was a communication of sorts.
And then we moved on but not before he asked me what's for dinner and I told him and he looked enthusiastic and all seemed well and I sat my exam and wrote until my left hand hurt and I kept thinking about the encounter on the stairs, about the going up and going down and about how wise my son was to comment, to stop me, to remind me that sometimes we need to stop and reconnect even if there is nothing much to say, if nothing only silence is to be shared.