When I am gone, my children will never sit around reminiscing about my minestrone. Or my apple crisp, or my creamy mashed potatoes. Yet while my cooking has been mediocre, the kids did all make it through childhood without rickets. 

When life accelerated, somewhere between the third child and the ninth, my menus closed in, like those figure skaters who spin faster and faster in a tightening circle.

Macaroni and cheese. 

Cheese sandwiches. 

Noodles with tomato sauce and Parmesan. 

Pizza.

Lasagna.

Bread and dairy was what we lived on. 

John pointed this out to me, which did nothing to increase his popularity around five pm. But he knew there were other meals, interesting ones, just on the other side of the pantry. 

One time when I felt mired in old patterns, he took me to the grocery store and told me to look at every aisle. Every shelf. With fresh eyes, rather than the knee jerk rejection that I had mastered. I was stunned by the thousands of options. Vegetables I had dismissed, fruits I ignored. 

Last summer my twins found a recipe app, and most days they explored new dishes. Avocado and thinly sliced tomato with fresh basil on eggs. Guacamole and broccoli on fettuccini with pine nuts.

 I joined a Community Shared Agriculture coop, which brought a wide variety of local produce into our kitchen every week. I found out that when red lettuce is in the fridge, I eat it. Though I confess to having let a few bunches of kale wilt. 

The other day a woman was telling me that her marriage feels ho hum. They do the same old same old week after week, and while sitting side by side on the couch in front of their favorite show is fun, kinda, there are other ways to connect. I mentioned some of the programs we offer as well as the price which is zero. 

By the way my own mother was no gourmet either. Lima beans, red jello with cool whip, slices of American cheese on white bread. I don't think she even owned any spices except cinnamon. But that's ok. She made a mean Boston cream pie.