Dear friend,
It’s Friday afternoon, the kitchen floor has just been swept, and the stanky and stained hand-towels swapped out for freshies. It is, after all, the start to a weekend — and for our little home kitchens, that should be something enough to celebrate.
How will you celebrate the gift of another day?
It’s not a particularly special day, but I find it valuable to infuse every day with something lovely and beautiful. To do so reminds me that I’m more than a machine, more than a money-maker, more than a housekeeper, more than a filler-of-all-needs. I’m also a child of God, made to seek after what is good and true and beautiful; to seek after him and to rest when my labors have been complete. To do so is both necessary and delightful.
It feels lovely to rest.
I celebrate life in very simple and ordinary ways. I take delight in the rising, golden bubbles in a glass of Prosecco. I appreciate the way the golden rays of autumn sunlight dance through the dirty kitchen windows onto the marble countertops. I enjoy the relief of sitting down in a cozy chair after a day’s labor. It is not expensive, nor is it fancy, but these are delights none-the-less.
Today, I gathered up dried poppy pods and hung them to rest. A delight.
I also slowed down enough to create a few new albums on my phone of our travels. Another delight.
And then there was the Tuscan grape bread I made. A true delight.
This trip to Italy did something to me. I found myself coming home with an absolutely shattered version of who I hold myself to be and instead, found myself holding my hands up to the Lord, practically begging him to use me, to mold me, to change me. I begged him to let me rest, not from my labors, but from the idea of how life is supposed to go.
Oh, how desperately I attempt to force it into a tidy, manageable, and linear life. It may seem perhaps a silly revelation to come back with from Italy, but any Italian will be eager to tell you how imperfect and unmanageable life is there. Everything is inconvenient. There’s a thousand steps or a thousand stairs between you and everything. Old doors rarely close. Appliances have a mind of their own. People are in your business. There’s red tape around every form of progress.
And yet I returned home feeling utterly shattered at how grateful I was to have experienced the inconvenience. I find myself almost crave it — the beauty for beauty’s sake, the (forced) slow-pace when the village shuts down for siesta, the single checker at the grocery store, the late night dinners (try getting a reservation before 7:00), the teeny everything, the raggedy cobblestones, the reduced grocery store selections, the temperamental showers, the language struggle.
Death to optimization has become my new chant.
I’m increasingly un-interested in achieving anything of grandeur; a tidy-life perfectly creased along all edges. Instead, I find myself seeking after less — a lot less. Less choices, less stuff, less plans, less scheduling, less perfection. Less everything.
I returned home walking slower. Breathing deeper. Longing for intimacy of life.
While I contemplate what this means in the modern American setting in which I find myself, I invite you to enjoy a small handful of the photographs from our travels (oh — and to make the gorgeous sciacciata d’uva bread that is made this time of year in Tuscany/Umbria). Most of the trip I spent working with guests, tending to my four children, and translating for the crowds, but I still managed to play photographer for a few very special moments, a job in which I truly delight.
Before I sign off — there are still a handful of spots available for our Che Vita Culinary Getaways in 2027. June’s trip will be particularly set apart for couples hoping to join in the fun, while September’s trip will be exclusively for the ladies. I’d love to welcome you and yours for a slow-paced culinary week together in Umbria. You can find more details here or email directly with questions.
Love,
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