When I have someone to do the dishes for me, I remember again how much I love it.  Cooking.  Baking.  Combining ingredients, tasting, testing, to make something satisfying and filling.  Something to warm the soul and the stomach.  Something that speaks love to my family and any guests.  Something that tastes like home.

I’ve been baking cookies for as long as I can remember.  But I don’t know when I actually fell in love with the process of cooking, non-measuring, and tasting (every good cook taste tests, right?).  Aunt Margie taught me how to make bread.  And Mom taught me how to read a recipe—then quickly learned that I would not be confined to such ideas as actual measurements.

When I was almost 12, my little sister was born.  With Mom on bed rest, I naturally took over most of the cooking for the family.  Mom wasn’t there to make me follow the recipe, and I began to experiment and create my own unique combinations.  There were plenty of flops (not to mention the times I misread the recipe and added, say, baking soda in place of powder to things like pancakes…).  But I developed some favorites, as well—like my garlic olive bread twist.

By the time I was falling in love with my husband, I already knew that “the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach.”  Naturally, I made sure to have plenty of caramel rolls on hand whenever he was visiting, and I tried to show some efficiency and accomplishment in the kitchen in case he was watching.  Just don’t ask Marlys about the rolls I burnt that night he told me he loved me…

Marrying a farmer stretched my cooking horizons in more ways than just eating naturally and in season.  His little sister might have hated the idea of learning to cook back in 2001, but by the time we got married, she was what I’d classify as a gourmet.  I didn’t want the contrast of going from her cooking to mine to be too shocking for my beloved food connoisseur.  So I kept trying and experimenting and browsing through my sister-in-law’s Gourmet magazine when it was lying around.  And I learned through trial and error, kind of like taste testing recipes as I cooked them.

I learned not to be offended when he offered ideas on how to improve recipes (but I also learned only to ask how he liked it if I really wanted to know).  I learned to ask him what he wanted me to cook but to be creative when he didn’t have any ideas.  I learned to love my cookbooks.  I learned that no matter how much I think curry enhances the flavor, he’ll detect it every single time—and that whenever I think a recipe needs a little bit more, he will already think it had enough.  I learned to dice onions small enough that they can’t be picked out, and that my husband likes garlic as much as my mother does (which isn’t much).

But I also learned that he really likes peanut butter and jelly for lunch and breakfast for dinner.  And that he’s happier with a low-stress, good-tasting meal and a happy wife than a gourmet creation and an exhausted wife.

So I keep experimenting, learning, and trying to be creative.  Because he does appreciate a tasty, gourmet meal.  And when he asks for pesto, I want to be able to whip up some of the best.

But just because he’s a farmer doesn’t mean he wants me to follow Nourishing Traditions step by step.  So I temper the things I learn about healthy eating with my family’s likes and preferences.  And I try to find the self control to keep the cookie jar full and my waistline small.

Because when I get overwhelmed and it’s two hours ‘til dinner and I have no idea what I’m making, I sit down with a cookbook and get lost in the pictures and the ideas and the endless flavor combinations.  Or I open my fridge and put all the vegetables on the counter and stretch my cooking creativity to the limit to pull it all together into something that will tempt the entire family.

And then I remember all over again how much I love this creative cooking process.  But what I love even more is the surprised delight on his face as the fork returns to the plate.  The little voices thanking me for “the good dinner” (even when they complained halfway through eating it).  The contented look and the scraping of plates and the way he sounds just like my daddy when he says, “I could founder myself on that.”

Because when I cook, it’s not just because I love it.  It’s for the enjoyment and nourishment of those I love.  It’s the aromas that welcome them and the satisfaction that fills them and the fresh-from-the-garden-vitamins that grow them.

And the dishes?  They come with the territory.  And I do so love the view from my kitchen window, so I can’t complain.  Especially when he remembers that the way to my heart is doing the dishes…

This week at YLCF we’re sharing something we’re passionate about—and the purpose we put it to!  Come join in, put your passion to words, put your mission on paper, and be entered to win all sorts of fabulous prizes.  But hurry, the link-up ends Sunday night!

(This post is also linked up with Heart for the Home Thursdays at Grace is Blessed by God.)