Sunday is my favorite day of the week.

Saturdays, I often spend sleeping. Sheer exhaustion, from the five days of ninety minutes each way commute and then eight hours in a small room in front of mounds of paper and two computer screens, sheer exhaustion takes over. My eyes struggle to stay open most of the day. I want nothing more than to stay in my warm bed under my warm covers and keep my body warm (which makes me even more proud of myself for yesterday). It’s what I need to be able to do my favorite day of the week.

Sunday is my favorite day of the week.

On Sunday, I go to church, which is blessedly at ten o’clock (used to start at eight-thirty), come home, change into my sweats, watch football (and now baseball), drink wine, banish everyone from the kitchen, turn on my music, dance, and …


I love to cook.

It’s the artist in me. There is something so magical and powerful about taking nothing and making it into something. Something beautiful, something useful. Single-minded attention. It’s like meditation in motion.

How fabulous is it to take something basic like this:


And making it into something like this:


Or something like this:


And turning it into something like this (it’s not pretty, but it’s SO good):


And, its best when you take this:


And turn it into something so wonderfully delicious like this:


Fried chicken. Butternut squash. Gingerbread. My husband actually got mad at my kids for eating all the chicken.

My family LOVES it when I cook. They love to see me up, dancing, happy.  Normal.

Kids are all in a food coma right now. No complaints about going to bed. Tucked in and kissed.

Sunday is my favorite day of the week.

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