 |
| View from my kitchen window |
My husband took
the spray bottle of vinegar and water from under the kitchen sink. Then he
retrieved a rag from the basement. What’s he up to? I wondered.
After three rainy days, sunlight seized
him to wash away the remains of our granddog’s slobber from the outside kitchen
door-wall. A month since Lily’s last visit, I’d wiped her drool from the inside
glass three days ago while on a cleaning spree.
What else is a gardener to do when
confined to a dusty, neglected house? So I set my favorite albums on the
turntable and got down to business.
At the conclusion of a congenial reunion
with my household belongings, I returned the spray bottle and Howard’s
Restore-a-Finish to the cabinet under
the kitchen sink.
Very thankful for my home, I paused before
the window above the sink. I’ve spent a good portion of the past thirty two
years cooking, dreaming, planning, praying, and repenting there. And washing
thousands of teacups and saucers.
Tree branches thrashed in the wind and
rain. “I know the feeling,” I whispered. “Trust me, this storm shall pass.”
I thanked God for the mind and strength to
vacuum and polish what my husband and I have accumulated in fifty two years of
marriage—many small treasures now stowed away in plastic bins in the basement.
Four thousand square feet wouldn’t be enough space to display the love and life
lived in this little house and on these three acres.
I observed the rainstorm long enough to notice
splatters of dishwater between the window panes, yet resisted the urge to grab
the spray bottle.
Rather, I watched the last blossoms of phlox
and rose stand their ground against autumn’s tantrum. I remembered our house in
Detroit, the view of our neighbor’s lush and lovely backyard while I cooked and
washed dishes as a young mother.
Our three girls learned to wash and dry
dishes in that sink and before the side window, although not tall enough to
appreciate the view. Perhaps that’s why they negotiated opting out of the chore.
Nonetheless, the landscape of passing and
emerging seasons nourished my soul, mind, and spirit. And enhanced what I fed
my family. A culinary prompt of sorts.
I’d like to say my fondness for the
Detroit kitchen window consciously influenced my choice for the generous window
I stand before several times throughout a day. Truth is, in my hours studying our
house plans, I cannot remember focusing on the kitchen window’s location.
But God is good. He knew my needs. My
family’s needs.
Because when the cook is happy, the house
is happy, especially after the cook dusts the furniture and floors and wipes
windows clean.
Dear Reader, when my husband retired, he
assumed the biannual wrestling match with washing our windows. This makes the
cook of the house happy.
At the conclusion of his reunion with the
spray bottle and rag, he consumes beef tenderloin and baked potato with sour
cream. And perhaps apple pie a la mode.
