Homemade

I stare out of the kitchen window peering through my binoculars watching the road. I am expecting a package today and the truck bringing it to me is late. It’s no wonder with the latest weather over Rabbit Ears Pass. These binoculars are usually reserved for watching cows calve, watching for the hubby to come home from a hard day at work, or for making sure the children aren't killing each other out in the pasture.  

Today I am watching for UPS. The special gift he holds for me a Junxifu Pasta maker with adjustable pasta roller, 4 different cutting plates and chrome plating. Oh the possibilities he brings. I can make spaghetti, fettuccine, lasagna noodles, and even ravioli noodles. If I could make that sound old Jerry Clower makes when he gets worked up, I’d be making it right now. How about that sound Tim the "Tool-man" Taylor makes when talking about “Man Stuff”.  UPS not only holds the key to savings (it should pay for itself in about 43 years) but it also holds my family’s well being.

Who knows what really goes into the food you buy? Just because it say’s “flour eggs milk salt” on the box doesn't always mean that’s what’s inside. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for convenience foods, but where do you draw the line. When we moved out to the Ranch a year and a half ago I started making my bread from scratch. Sometimes in a pinch I’ll buy a loaf of “Floppy Bread” as my family calls it, but not very often. They prefer the homemade stuff. From bread to biscuits and cake to pasta they want it real and un-messed around with. Maybe I spoiled them but I don’t really care. This is how I show my love.

I put Yorkshire Puddings on the table in front of my English husband and he knows I was thinking of him while cracking the eggs and beating in the milk. I show up at school with cupcakes decorated like clowns and my birthday boy knows I had just him in mind. When I ask “what would you like for supper?” and the answer is “spag ball” (spaghetti) my family probably won't think about the hours spent peeling and chopping the garlic and onions, sauteing the meat, simmering the sauce forever and now making the pasta, and that's OK. I do it because I know that’s just how they like it.

I put my love into each onion I chop, into each loaf of bread I bake, and into each pie I conjure. Sometimes the gratitude doesn't quite get vocalized but when the English muffins are gone the next day, when a boy is hanging with his head in the fridge looking for the chokecherry jelly, and when boys are fighting over who gets the last Yorkshire Pudding, that is when I get my thank yous.   

My UPS guy finally did show up with my Junxifu and we indeed had homemade pasta for lunch the next day. Homemade does not always mean cheaper, faster, or easier. However, it always means more. More to me, more to them, and that’s why I do it.