We are not a church going family, but Sundays are our day of rest. Smelling of potatoes roasting with garlic and fresh parsley, tofu cooking on the stove, yeast in the homemade bread helping it rise to perfection. Chad watches soccer in the background as he does the New York Times crossword, Liam building legos, and I fiddle in the kitchen.
Sure, we call the living room the family room, but the kitchen is where the magic happens. The center of most of our activity – the homework, the reading, the dicing and chopping, the inevitable dish doing catastrophe, and sometimes the fights about homework, reading, and the inevitable dish doing catastrophe, but we love this room.
Today I am making our first focaccia bread. It rises on the stovetop, a warm place for rising. An hour and a half, punch it down, let it rise, sprinkle with herbs, and bake. The recipe roams in my head as I do other things, knowing it is doing its work.
Sundays are peace. Sundays are beautiful. Sundays are a repose to the work and grind of the week, and I am ever grateful for this day that we have made holy in our family.