Like a Prayer

My father, who loved to create in the kitchen, used to quote an Italian colleague of his to convey his thoughts on cooking: "A pot of sauce," he'd say, "can be a prayer." And when you think of little old Italian lady hovered over the stove, stirring and tasting and spicing, it's easy to see the truth in it.

A former colleague of my own shared a somewhat related thought. Referring to old friends and family she doesn't see often, she said, "I like to think that any time they cross my mind, it's a kind of prayer."

I don't take as much time in prayer as I should. I often promise to pray for friends and family, and though I do, I often feel I'm not doing all that I can, not spending enough time or using the right words.

Today I spent a good part of the day in the kitchen, and it brought back happy thoughts of my dad and his sister, who truly was the chef in the family. I made chicken salad, which reminded me of my aunt, as she was the first person to serve me a chicken salad that I liked. I added grapes to the recipe, as she did, and I thought of meals my family shared with hers, and summer days spent with her and my Nana and cousins. I imagined that she and my dad, now both gone, were sharing a meal together at that moment, discussing recipes and politics and books.

I don't often feel as close to my deceased loved ones as I want to. Even my dad, who was and is such an important, cherished person my life, usually feels incredibly distant. But today in my kitchen, I got to feel him right up close, and it did indeed feel like an answered prayer.