#flowerchild 

The kitchen holds seemingly random items that have deep feeling threads to memories you treasure … details linger of delicious treats and heartbeats spent with people you love.

My kitchen holds one old baking sheet, that has cradled every birthday cake my husband and his brothers were ever made by their Mother (their entire lives).  A tradition that is still in practice and has become so sentimentally critical, that I worry about the responsibility of the pan even being under my roof.  "Can we get in insured?“ I’ve (half) joked.

Another gem sits in a beautiful Anthropologie jar a top my counter, where lovely modern kitchen utensils spring out perfectly like a fresh bouquet of flowers, except this one ugly duckling - a chipped army green soup ladle that was my Mother’s.  I’d spend hours smelling the preparation of my Mom’s homemade soups as a child, whining all the while, "When is it ready?!”  I knew when that ladle emerged, my feast was on it’s way.

That spoon’s meaning has grown greater since my Mom died.  To this day, I always reach past all the shiny Williams & Sonoma artifacts, grab that eye sore, and smile, knowing she is with me, as I continue her tradition of whirling up warm pots of comfort for my family and friends.  I stir and stir, propping my right leg up on my left, a odd but comfortable flamingo stance…

just like my Mom.

thatkindofwoman:

Perfection.