Sunday's lasagna, slowly.
A pan of lasagna, made the way my mother made it. Six hours, mostly waiting. The waiting is the recipe.
Ihave a friend who keeps a tidier kitchen than I do. She bakes bread on a Tuesday. Her boys eat cucumbers as a snack. I watched her unload the dishwasher the other afternoon — humming, patient, the windows open — and I thought: I would like to live like that. And then I thought: she has been awake since 4:30 am, and her husband is out of town, and she has been crying a little.
The tidiest kitchen in the world is not the same thing as a happy one. I write that down so I do not forget it. The dishes can wait an hour. They have waited longer.
“What I want for you this week is the smallest possible kindness — toward yourself, first, and then toward the people you love.”
So: be on time, sometimes. Be late on purpose, sometimes. Burn the toast. Let your daughter wear the wrong shoes. Sit down for ten minutes with a cup of something hot. I’ll be here when you come back.
One letter, one Sunday morning. A recipe, a small piece of advice, a question worth carrying through the week. Free, and a touch personal.
I write letters to families on Sunday mornings. I’ve raised my own. I’ve cooked a lot of soup. I’m not a doctor, and I’m not your mother — but I’m here, and I’d like to be of use.