Thursday, May 10, 2012
I made ravioli this afternoon. Last night after B went to bed I made, rolled, cut the dough.
I need a ravioli cutter, using a post-it-note to measure worked, but it was time consuming. I stacked the dough between bits of parchment paper, placed it in the fridge, went to bed.
After my mom cleaned my house and helped me with shopping (I've gone to the grocery store every day but one this week; can't get it together) I put B in the Ergo and prepared dinner.
I made the ravioli filler.
I made dough for rolls.
I took the ravioli from the refrigerator, peeled it from its parchment home, filled it with spinach and cheese, brushed the sides with olive oil, placed a second piece on top, pinched the sides, set it back on the shelf.
Worship music drifted softly into the kitchen from the dining room.
B fell asleep. I shifted him around a million times, he preferred head thrown back utter outness to neck saving resting on mama's back.
I made pasta.
I made rolls.
I didn't cry.
I wanted to, but I pushed the tears down - from my eyes to my neck to my shoulders to my arms to my hands. I worked the pain and sorrow into the dough until I couldn't feel it pressing against my eyelids.
I made dinner from scratch for people I love.
I wouldn't have tried this a year ago. I wouldn't have believed myself capable.
Losing her has made me more comfortable with failure. Sometimes you try your best, you put your whole heart into an endeavor, only to watch it crumble and fade.
Results don't always equal efforts even when you follow the directions, do as you're told, adhere to standards.
Sometimes we fail.
Sometimes we fall.
Sometimes a comfortable life becomes a life unexpected.
In my unexpected I've found a new side to my soul, one that finds comfort in warm kitchens and flour soaked hands on sad spring days.
Tomorrow I will wake up, nurse B, put him on my back, prepare and bake my first cake.
I'll whisk sorrow into sugar, blend pain with flour, fold memories into frosting. And when the tears threaten to spill over I'll reach back, grab the chubby foot gently kicking my side, and squeeze until the pressure abates.