Something to Share

It's all this

As of today, September 13, the perpetual jar of iced tea is still going strong (because summer is still, mostly, going strong). When the last in the jar is sloshed over ice in a glass, it’s filled right back up again, to the neck with fresh water, and two tea bags dunked under (fresh mint leaves, dunked under just then is most delightful, too). Left on the counter, the tea steeps to a resinous bronze in less than an hour. After squeezing all the liquid from the tea bags and tossing them into the compost bin, I stir in a slight bit of something sweet - raw sugar, honey, maple syrup, or monk fruit sugar. Then I set it in the fridge to chill. On a cutting board, I slice a whole lemon into glistening rounds, close them up in a jar, and put it in the fridge, too. Now I’m ready to say to anyone who pops through my door, “May I pour you a glass of iced tea with lemon?”

There’s something about having something ready to share. Even if you had no idea you’d have the opportunity. There’s a knock at the door, or a text saying they’re on their way. And so are you. On your way to the fridge or the pantry, to slice up the zucchini bread, bring out the olives and nuts, or pour the iced tea.

Or you might have slightly more notice. A call from your son with an invitation to take a two hour drive to his new apartment the next day, to hug his neck, tour his place, and watch Sunday football together on his new couch.

Of course you’ll bring something to share. How about a whole meal (and then some)? It’s the very best part of mothering young adult sons - bringing them homemade food.

After the call, I puttered away the evening hours in my kitchen, preparing and assembling a lasagna, then baking banana bread. The next morning, I gathered a salad from my garden, washed it, chopped it, tossed it, and put it in a cooler along with the ready-to-bake lasagna. I stirred together homemade ranch dressing and sliced the banana bread (because he probably wouldn’t have a bread knife). I pulled brownies and bread dough from the freezer - they would thaw in a bag on the drive. I packed several root beers (I keep them in the larder for the boys), and drinks for my husband and me. Then I grabbed the Get Away Kit (because I knew he likely wouldn’t have more than paper plates and plastic flatware in his kitchen).

We arrived to a proud son, a beautiful, bright apartment with its new sofa, giant TV(guy priority), and pre-heated oven. I slid the lasagna in and while it baked, I took plates, flatware, napkins, a tea towel, and a Swedish dish cloth from my kit, and played house in his kitchen. I rolled the dough into bread sticks and set them on the stove to rise. While we awaited lunch, we ate banana bread slicked with butter, an odd appetizer, perhaps, but when there’s fresh banana bread in the house, there’s no waiting.

And, finally, we ate lunch, plates on laps, drinks on the new-to-us coffee table we’d bought from a lady on Facebook that morning, the sounds of football in the background. After his first bite, the words tumbled out around the munching, “Mom, this is so good!”

And I knew what he meant. Somehow, when you gather up food to share, it just tastes that way. It’s the food. But not just the food. It’s the time, and the place, and the people, and the thought, and the care, and the sharing of that which nourishes us, it’s all this, that gives the simplest of things the taste of something wonderful.