Mattresses

For many weeks now, I've tried to blog about what's happening in the Dykstra household. What's happening is immensely difficult and confusing and trying. It's really not bloggable. It doesn't fit neatly within any category and it only gives the hearer a sense of unrest. No neat little ends to tie up within, say, 5 paragraphs. 

So why am I blogging at all? 

If you're at all familiar with the phrase "go to the mattresses", then you'll have an idea.

When life is truly overwhelming and plans to be so for a long while, what do you do? To release tension? To remember who you are? For me, I often go to my cookbooks. 

When I want to remember the strength of my past, I like to dig in some old family recipes, collect new family recipes and try new ones... Food. 

The point isn't to eat the food in a gluttonous cry fest of anxiety. The catharsis comes in the thoughtful making of the food. This isn't a time for low-fat or quick-n-easy. It's not a time for gourmet ostentation either. It's a time of reflection, joy and nourishment.

In making the recipe of, say, my precious Great Grandmother's Caramel Frosting (to *die* for), I connect with her hospitality and grace. I remember her dining table stretched to its very longest length and card tables attached at the ends to extend it still further. I remember the joy of receiving a piece of this marvelous cake and feeling like I was well cared for. This woman knew how to bake, too. Her cheese rolls? Made with real lard and goo-gobs of sharp cheddar. Her kitchen was never really closed, it just took a nap on occasion. She loved people by making them really. good. food.

My grammy preferred baking to cooking. To this day, I think she makes a pie almost every other day. I watched her knowing hands take a simple fork and mix the crust the last time I visited her in Florida. I wanted to stay there at that very counter forever and listen to her pad around the kitchen and tell me tidbits about groceries that were on sale. She's the quintessential grandma with cookies in the oven, on the counter in a tin or in the freezer. One day, I may even share her simple Hersh*ey Kiss Shortbread cookies. *swoon*

My loving husband would  have me believe that he basically grew up on slabs of steak and sides of potatoes. He jests, of course. I know this for a fact because a few weeks ago I visited his parents by myself with the girls and copied beloved recipes from his grandmother and mother. (That's right, Dan. I got the noodles recipe.) And I got a few others. Pickles. Pies. Jams. Oh my. 

Life doesn't promise to be easy, so I have to keep moving forward and show my daughters the heart of our home. You know--it may just be in the kitchen.