Sometimes, if you’re standing in the right place, with your eyes open, you see something you never expected.
Every day, as we drive in the car, rounding the curve past that row of mailboxes, just before the entire Puget Sound opens up to our right, Danny and I talk about the day’s meals, the merits of almond flour, the memories of dinners we have created together. When we walk through the door of our home, we put down the groceries, put Little Bean up on a chair at the countertops, and start cooking.
Danny and I are more in love than when I first gushed about him. It’s just quiet now. Solid, like breath, and enduring.
This year, we have watched Little Bean grow into herself. She climbs chairs and laughs as they fall backwards. She gobbles up books, sitting in my lap on the end of the couch to hear Cowboy Small one more time. And then again. She’s talking and babbling and cracking us up. The only time she stops moving is when she is asleep. She’s a non-stop whirling dervish of climbing and marching, giggling and tickling, exploring and excitement. She is the most amazing being we have ever met.
When Little Bean stands beside me as I bake, I am at peace.
We are honored, beyond words, that anyone cares what we cook together in our kitchen. Thank you for all your comments, suggestions, questions, and conversations here (and on Twitter, Facebook, and other public places). I’m sorry that I can’t answer all my emails anymore. My glass is always overflowing. But please know that you are part of our family. We love being here with you.
2009 has been one of the most complex, sometimes difficult, and consistently joyful years of our lives together. It has been action-packed: turning in the first draft of our book, moving to the island, enduring Little Bean’s major surgery and slow recovery, making our way through final edits of the book, Danny starting a new job cooking (and he loves it), and a number of Big Adult Things (as my friend Tita likes to call them) that were clarifying and not for this site.
I have to say: I wouldn’t mind if 2010 is a bit more mundane.
It’s in these mundane moments that the light opens up.
Yesterday, I waited on the ferry dock for the next boat. Little Bean was asleep in her car seat. Danny was at work, pan-searing halibut and plating it with chickpea ragu and a curry vinaigrette. For a few moments, I had nothing to do, nowhere to go. I pulled out a book. (This is pretty rare these days, with a toddler who never stops moving.) Burrowing down into the words, I felt content. And then I noticed the light shift on my fingers.
I looked up. And then I grabbed the camera.
That’s all I’m hoping for 2010: to be here, noticing.
Happy New Year, all. May your year be filled with health and happiness, belly laughter, and more good food than you could ever imagine.
Love. And unexpected light.