Realizing what he may have thought I had said, I rephrase my statement: “I need a space of my own. A place for all my work, my books, and the paperwork that is scattered over every single surface of the kitchen! I need an office.”
I see him nod in agreement. Message received. So what next?
“Always,” I say.
We sit in a small café and the restaurant noise fills the air surrounding us. Something in his tone hints at a good story and I lean in, not wanting a single detail to be lost in the clinks of cups and saucers.
We have been meeting for donuts and coffee more frequently lately and as the years roll on, I notice how we find great solace in telling stories from the past. They bring warmth and comfort and, like old friends, we enjoy sipping strong coffee while we sit with them for a while. I especially love the stories that are unearthed from my father’s side of the family. Each of our visits gifts me with an unknown piece of my history, which I eagerly devour.
However, about the time that the leaves begin to change, so do my feelings towards my meal plans. This year proved to be a bit more daunting because I feel like I have spent the last six months living in my kitchen. Summer consumed every bit of my energy and early September saw me leaning into more processed foods.
After a couple weeks it hits me: I must back away from the boxed meals and chop a vegetable. It’s time I take to the cookbooks.
I tread gently into the conversation with a simple, “Really?”
The selling of this house has been a contentious topic over the past few years. Despite the fact that it currently sits empty, the house was her first large purchase after my parents’ divorce. Already married and living on my own, the tiny house created a home for my mother and brother and symbolized new beginnings on multiple fronts so I’ve always understood her resistance to sell even though she hasn’t lived in it since getting remarried 10 years ago.
There are usually two very staunch camps of people when it comes to decorating for Christmas:
As time goes on though, we often find them taking up residency on the top shelves of our linen closets or shoved in a box hiding out in our storage sheds, the latter of which is where I recently (re)discovered my first baby quilt. Well, the pieces of it at least.
Let’s go back a few months…