So, I went grocery shopping the other day, because I moved, and my kids aren’t really into acting out Old Mother Hubbard for real. My oldest son eats a full meal about every twenty minutes and the other two like the idea of three squares a day. I’m trying to work on their selfish and demanding attitudes, but this time, I caved: I was hungry, too.
Due to some major real-life drama, we had almost nothing to move into this house. (Twenty or so boxes of books, a few beds and some clothes, and that’s pretty much it. My priorities are in line.) I am sitting in an orange canvas folding chair as I type this. My bed was a gift, and my breakfast room is furnished with a folding table and four wrestler-approved metal folding chairs, plus one cute white Ikea hand-me-down. My mother-in-law lent me a tablecloth, so it won’t look like terrorists live here. Call me weird, but I kind of like the emptiness. The uncluttered counters, the empty rooms and bare cabinets, they are as beautiful and as full of limitless possibility as an untouched white canvas.
I can find anything I want in this kitchen, because there’s nearly nothing in this kitchen. (We did bring my iron skillet down here. I’m crazy, but I’m not nuts.) The kids emptied the dishwasher earlier, and one asked, “Where does this go?”
“I don’t care. You decide,” I said, “Surprise me.” I’m sort of hoping they change their minds every day-how fun would that be?
Anyway, the echoing pantry, my kids, and my own need for Cheezits and Ben&Jerry’s sent motivated me to make a list, cut the coupons, and head to H.E.B. That place is food heaven when you’re operating a fully-functional well-equipped kitchen, but when you’re living like hippies who have weird aversions to anything manufactured by The Man, that monstrous place with all of its aisles that go in a hundred different directions is pretty much Food Hell. I was overwhelmed: how do you plan nutritious meals for a family of five when you don’t own flour or a vegetable peeler? I consulted the envelope that contained my carefully clipped coupons and my detailed list of Meals That Can Be Made in an Iron Skillet (cornbread, cornbread, cornbread, and cornbread).
My list was not there. The coupons were in their proper place, but my list, The List, was AWOL. I would have to Fly Blind in H.E.B. Kids’ lives were on the line. I soldiered through a produce section the size of the average Walgreens, and passed dead beasts of every sort. Cheeses assaulted my nostrils with merciless ferocity, and delicious oddities from every corner of the world tempted my gluttonous sin nature. I tried to focus on filling my cart judiciously as my ability to simultaneously perform mental meal planning and addition was tested as it had never been tested before. I made it home, a victorious warrior who had stormed the field of battle and lived to tell the tale. Of course, we are eating spaghetti, salad, and frozen pizza for the time being, but maybe we’ll take up a unit study of Italy…
As we put everything away, I felt better: my family wouldn’t starve, and I was not a Failure as a Parent. I slept soundly, and woke up this morning ready to enjoy a Perfect Breakfast (translation: H.E.B.’s Texas Pecan coffee with a bagel and cream cheese). The borrowed coffee maker began to make those wonderful coffee-maker sounds, and my little borrowed mug and I were enjoying the peaceful morning. I went to the pantry, pulled out the beautiful “everything” bagels, turned around, and laughed out loud:
Getting creative with breakfast…
I don’t own a toaster.
And, I think I’m pretty okay with that. Creativity is born of boundaries and emptiness. My new house is a place electric with creative possibility. I almost want to leave is as bare as possible: children play and learn here.