Marinara, Momming, and Meaningful Moments

See this? This pot of farm-fresh tomatoes, basil I grew my own-dang-self, fragrant oil from Italian olives…this vat of dinners yet-to-be-planned….

See it? It looks delish and smells scrumptious.

Now, dear friends. Peer with me. Look deeper.

This is my Momma. For 50+ years, she simmered pots on the stove for her family, scents of veggies, tenderness, care, and love wafting through the kitchen, through the home, and to the front door to greet us when we came home. She taught me to love; she taught me to cook.

This is my extended family in Iowa. The ones who turned me into a foodie, who fostered my love for cooking and introduced me to Food Network. The ones who took me in as their own when my family left the Midwest for warmer weather. The ones I celebrated and honored this past week as I drove to my Iowa hometown to honor a life well lived.

This is my college roommate, who knew spaghetti had been my go-to “please make this for my birthday, please” meal since I was little. The one who met me at my favorite childhood spaghetti joint in Omaha last Wednesday night, sharing years of memories and starting new ones as we shared our lives, our loves, and the mysterious wonder that we can grow, evolve (and age?) as humans yet still remain beautifully who we are.

This is my daughter, who shared her Saturday as I rolled home through her college town, taking time away from studying surgeries, hanging with fellow med school friends, and a precious weekend afternoon to stroll the sidewalks with me, basking in both the Iowa sun and the joy of being together for a small snap of time.

This is America. The Iowa farmers I met face-to-face at the market shared with me not only tomatoes, kale, zucchini, dill, beets, corn, and other homegrown goodies, but also let me take part in the 3-, 4-, or even 5-generations of family farming in America’s Heartland (that I will solemnly swear has some of the best produce on this continent).

This is my husband. This is love. This is made specially for him, taking his allergies and aversions into consideration so that he can enjoy scrumptious food without risk of illness. This is celebrating him, and his support of me loving our family, our friends, our dear ones both near and far. This is following his example of a life of service, a posture of giving, and loving so well.

This is family. As I wash, chop, simmer, and stir, I imagine our kids—our six beloved 20-somethings—our grandbabies, dinner parties yet to be planned, and memories yet-to-be-made. I imagine sharing conversation over this marinara, incorporating generations that came before us, the love we’ve shared, and rich heritages still being built. I imagine game nights, laughter around the table, babies with sauce on their faces and on the floor, and a heart filled with warmth.

Mmmmmm, dear friends. Yes, I’ll share the recipe. It starts with tomatoes grown from generations of Iowa farmers and ends with pots full of family, connection, conversation, and love. Plus, there’s some olive oil and the basil I grew my own-dang-self.