this article in the New York Times, while I was avoiding going outside in the 96-degree heat (I'm a heat wimp), and loved the idea that Jenny Rosenstrach had chronicled what she had cooked for her family in a small journal. Of course, I love the idea of journals, and the dailiness of life that they can portray. I'm always drawn to epistolary novels, the characters' lives revealed day by day (although a steady diet of those can get tiresome) and think that our own personal journals can function as sort of an epistolary fiction/fact/memoir in some way.
I clicked over to her website, Dinner: A Love Story, and browsed through it. (I'm sure her hits for the day will go through the roof) and loved what I saw at the end of one of the posts.
Make Dinner, Not War.
My mother did just this for years and years and year, and now apparently, my Dad does a lot of the cooking, while she's busy recovering from various physical challenges. I've followed in their footsteps, but we've always been a household that revolved around the table.
There's a saying around my husband's family that while his father was down in the basement, challenging the young adult grandchildren to get out and change the world, his mother was upstairs in the kitchen, fixing dinner and doing just that, meal by meal.