Missing My Mommy

I’m homesick today. I feel it way down deep, all the way into my toes. (♫ starts in my toes, then I crinkle my nose….) It’s still 50 days (and who’s counting) until I fly back to the states and honestly, there is so much to look forward to in these 50 days, so…I don’t know why my deal is. We’ve got lots of visitors coming our way, a trip to Holland, my German certification test (ok, not exactly looking forward to that one.) Still, today, I want my mommy.

I just got back from the grocery store, which was pretty uneventful. I was there purchasing a wide variety of booze for our beer tasting tonight. We’re celebrating the fact that Kevin has been here one year. (Happy 1st Anniversary Kevin and Germany!) Thought we’d eat some of his favorite food, Mexican, plus have an excuse to try some different kinds of beer. Although, let it be known that we’ve done pretty well on this front so far. I do not consider myself a ‘beer gal’, usually preferring wine, but I may be rethinking my ways. Anyway, I digress---got everything home and was unpacking the groceries in the kitchen when I got a little blue…um, that’s the American blue, not German (see More Notes on Booze.)

There are two things that usually bring on this feeling. Number 1 being that a ton of our friends and family are reproducing back home and we’re missing out on the early years when these kids are so darn cute. (Thank Goodness for webcams and telephones!) The other thing that I miss so much is sharing a kitchen and cooking with the women (and sometimes men) in my life. I cannot tell you how much I love this. The true party for me is always in the kitchen. The good news is that in 50-some days, I get to perch myself on our breakfast bar in Quincy to chat with my mom while making dinner, as my dad bustles around, filling our glasses and heating up the grill. I simply cannot wait.

So much of bonding for women takes place in the kitchen, and I guess I think it’s a wonderful thing. (I’ve just enraged feminists everywhere. Sorry!) Most of my deep, meaningful conversations with my mom happened at the breakfast bar. Not to mention, I truly came to love my sister-in-law Lori in her kitchen in New Orleans. We’ve also spent many a Sunday morning cooking up breakfast with our hosts at whoever’s house we’d spent the night, be it Club Curran, Matt-n-Natalie’s, my brother’s, and really anyone else who lives off of I-70. I truly believe that sharing your kitchen is sharing your heart. (Wow…that was sappy. Barf.)

I think this bonding-in-the-kitchen thing has taken over the getting-ready-to-go-out thing I had with my roommates in college. Since I didn’t grow up with sisters, I completely enjoyed the hustle and bustle that it took to get the four of us out the door and to the bar (err..I mean library, Dad.) The process included any number of the following exercises: The trying on at least 10 outfits (most of which you had borrowed,) the input on/or better yet hands on assistance with hair and make-up, a million phone calls with where we were to be when…all the while gossiping about what boys we were gonna meet up with (err…I mean study with.) But now that the days of living together are gone, we have resorted to another common bond—cooking.

Even though I’m longing for home, I’m still so grateful for my new friends here. We are each other’s family and have (in a very short time) thrust ourselves into one-another's kitchens. You seriously would not have believed the craziness that was Thanksgiving. There were at least 9 chefs in the kitchen at any one given moment and more than 5 on clean-up duty.

So tonight I get to go over and help Laura in her kitchen. She’s doing the tacos, Heidi’s bringing salad and nachos and Kristi’s baking a cake. What I’m missing, though, is sharing this goofy, daily, run-of-the-mill stuff with my Susan, with my girls in St. Louis and especially with my mom. So…50 days and counting.