Stuck in the kitchen

I can’t seem to get out of the kitchen this summer.

Yes, I realize how stereotypical that sounds: Mom’s stuck in the kitchen. Not only have I always resisted the cliché of being the predominant meal producer in the family; I don’t even like the domestic cliché of “kitchen as the heart of the home.” Although our kitchen is very much designed in the current trend of kitchen-as-gathering-place, I often insist when friends come over that we sit somewhere else for drinks and appetizers, because standing behind the counter while friends eat and drink always makes me feel like Sam the Bartender.

So it’s frustrating that I seem unable to leave the boundaries of that particular room these days. With the kids home full-time for summer vacation – their choice that they did not want to do camp or regular classes, and our out-of-town trip doesn’t come for several more weeks – I feel like I’m in the kitchen hour after hour.

It starts in the morning as soon as I return from my run. The kids drift down to the kitchen one at a time; both want something different for breakfast. The dog needs to be fed too. I give the dog her scoop of kibble and put bagels or toast in the toaster for the kids; then I slice a peach for myself and try to make it across the room to the coffee grinder without getting distracted by other tasks, reminding myself frequently of the oxygen-mask rule of parenting: secure your own airflow before you help other passengers. Meaning, in this case, I can’t help everyone else if I’m ravenous myself.

And then as soon as I’ve provided sustenance for pet, children and self, it’s out to the barnyard to let the sheep out to pasture; they’re hungry too after twelve hours in their enclosure, safe from coyotes but far from fresh grazing.

Feed, then clean up, then up to my writing desk for three hours – which in the summer is the extent of my work day -- and then it’s time to make lunch. Again, both kids have different requests. Again, I farm out to them what I can – fetch this from the fridge; put that in the sink; someone please let the dog out; someone please let the dog in – but it’s still me orchestrating the whole thing. With a minor pang of despair I watch the kids take their last bites of lunch just as I begin making my own, knowing sitting down to eat a sandwich and read the paper is once again a bit of a pipe dream now that they’re done eating and will be eager to start our afternoon activities, which usually begin with leaving the house to go swimming.

Some evenings dinner is traditional sit-down; four out of seven, though, Tim and Rick are at evening baseball games, Tim as player and Rick as coach. That means Tim needs a hearty snack before he leaves for the game, and then once they’re gone I start thinking about what I can make that Holly and I can enjoy at a regular dinner hour but that Rick and Tim can reheat when they get home.

On the weekends, I all but insist we go out at least once. “I need just one meal a week when it’s not my responsibility to figure out what anyone else should eat,” I implore my family. So we go out, and I make them decide where to go; I don’t even want to think about menus on the night we go out. I just want someone else to take care of it.

I’m learning this summer to take a Zen attitude, to see the beauty in the ceaseless cycle of cooking and serving and cleaning. I revel in the sound of the disposal and the dishwasher, knowing that the appliances are working on my behalf. I sweep the kitchen floor lovingly, telling myself it’s good to see the crumbs collecting together in the dustpan and knowing the broom leaves cleanliness in its wake. I admit, I’ve even been feeling secretly enthusiastic about the new microfiber dishcloths I bought last week, because they leave our countertops so much shinier than the old, grease-saturated dishcloths did.

Feeding, serving, cleaning up the mess: the rituals of a smoothly functioning kitchen become a metaphor for a smoothly functioning family. And as I stick one last plate into the dishwasher and press “start” yet again, I remind myself to appreciate these rituals. Keeping the family fed is no small feat, and I’m happy to be able to do it.

But I should also be trying to teach the kids to do more kitchen chores. It’s important for them to learn these jobs, and it’s important for me to get a break. Maybe they’ll learn to see the Zen aspects of sweeping as well. It’s never too early to appreciate a shining floor.

Zen-like running on a cool and drizzly afternoon

I headed out to run in a cool drizzle around 5 PM and could tell ten steps in that it was going to be a good one…and in fact it was great. Just great. It was the kind of run I’m always searching for these days and so often don’t find, because it’s hot or I’m hungry or the dog keeps stopping to sniff the underbrush or I’m in a hurry to get back to my desk and finish an article.

So often in the past two years I’ve asked, “Why doesn’t running feel the way it used to? Am I getting old? Am I just turning into a really bad runner?” I still can’t answer that, but today I re-discovered running at its best, and it made me so happy. I had that perfect Zen feeling of no goal, no endpoint, just running for the sake of running: no finish line, the only concrete marker the feel of the road unspooling under my feet. I did the Stearns Street loop – without the dog, and with This American Life on the iPod -- but was feeling so good that I added on, not only with Woodridge Road like I often do but running all the way down to the end of Baldwin before looping back up. My feet just kept pounding on; cool light drops fell over my hair and face; thick green leaves rustled overhead in the breeze. I ran for 50 minutes in all, 4.3 miles, which of course is not a long run by most runners’ standards and not even usually by mine. It wasn’t the length, it was the comfort level and the sense of commitment I felt to the run.

But also, not only physically but mentally, it was the kind of run I use to do. I wasn’t just trying to fit it in to an overscheduled day or hurrying back to do more work; I wasn’t in any particular hurry at all. And I was very aware of how good it would feel to release a healthy dose of endorphins before tonight’s party, which I’m absolutely looking forward to but which can also be a little anxiety-producing in that there are just so many people – hundreds, it often seems – to seek out and visit with and get reacquainted with. Much as I love get-togethers, that kind of social pressure makes me a little nervous, and there’s nothing like a good workout to dispel those nerves.

When I got home, the animals happened to be all grazing in a line alongside the driveway like they sometimes do, and they all seemed to be standing in the same pose staring at me as I ran by, as if saying, “Where have you been for so long?” I finished the run when I reached them; they were very wet but in friendly moods. One of the wethers let me pet him, and of course Daisy, the friendliest cow, wanted her head scratched. They all seemed puzzled that I was out in the rain, but somehow welcoming as I returned.

Now I’m back home, after a hot shower, with the pleasantly achy feeling of a good workout, and it’s just so reassuring to know it can still be like this. Not just a mile rushed in here or there but a long, deliberate, meditative run on a cool, drizzly mid-September afternoon.