On Rosh Hashanah, my daughter and I made honey cake together. My wife, who wasn't feeling well, called instructions to us from the living room as we stood at the kitchen counter with the recipe while gathering the ingredients. My daughter was perched on a chair wearing her Fancy Nancy apron over a pair of underpants. I don't remember what I was wearing, but the honey was sweet, and the batter was thick and the kitchen smelled like a holiday with flour sprinkled all around.
I didn't realize how much I would cherish that memory, while we were in the middle of it. But I'm already looking forward to next year when my daughter (or daughters) puts an apron on over her underpants and stands on a chair with a large wooden spoon, ready for the task at hand. It's one of those moments where there is truly no inclination to consider the future or dwell on the past. Just measure the ingredients carefully and mix, mix, mix.
Each time I take a bite of honey cake - sticky and dense - it's not nearly as sweet as the thought of standing at the kitchen counter with my daughter. This is the exact thing that I don't want to end. This is the meaning of parenthood. This is why I must have grandchildren.
No comments:
Post a Comment