I have this “thing” where the more I run out of groceries, the more resistant I become to going shopping. 

With the low-hanging fruit gone — the chips and cereal, celery and potatoes, frozen leftovers, snacky chocolate — cooking becomes a challenge. Now’s the time to dig into my reserves: the meats that take some planning, the dry goods that gather dust in the pastry, the bits and pieces rattling around the fridge. 

Sparse shelves mean it’s time to downshift into low gear and actually use what I have, to create something out of all the little bits, to practice the art of cooking from scratch. Yay! 

(Am I the only one who gets excited when the fridge gets empty? Is anyone else like this?) 

So last night, with our supplies dwindling dangerously and the moans of the masses getting ever louder, I set one goal for my Saturday: make so much food that it would totally obliterate any need to go grocery shopping. 

Before going to bed, I took inventory and made plans. I scribbled a list of all the things I could make. I ran down cellar and pulled a bunch of meat, fruit, and bread from the freezer to thaw. 

I was ready. 

This morning, I woke up a little after six. I vaulted out of bed and for the next seven hours, I cooked and baked, whipped and beat, chopped and sauteed and simmered and seared. 

(The guys washed the dishes.)

Here’s what I made:

• parbaked 5 pie crusts (that had been ready-to-bake in the freezer)
• sauteed a large bag of kale for later in the week
• made pie crumb topping (half went into the freezer for later)
• baked 1 grape pie with crumb topping
• baked 1 sour cherry-red raspberry-rhubarb pie with oat crumble topping (that I found in the freezer)
• oven-baked 3 pounds of sliced bacon
• made a double batch of chocolate ice cream base
• cooked a pound of white beans in the instapot
• turned the white beans into baked beans (leftover tomato juice, harissa paste, honey, etc)
• cooked a bunch of potatoes in the instapot and then turned them into a potato salad
• pressure-cooked beef cheeks in a red wine onion sauce (for later in the week)
• prepped a beef heart for grilling tomorrow (tacos!)
• made a cilantro chimichurri sauce to go with the tacos (after I went to a friend’s house to pick the cilantro)
• prepped a big pan of baked French toast to use up an experimental loaf of cinnamon swirl bread from the freezer and a bunch of random packs of cream cheese
• turned 3 quarts of yogurt into smoothies for the week
• made mascarpone whip (using up two test batches of mascarpone) for a fruit tiramisu I’ll assemble later
• cleaned, cut, and packaged an Asiago

We don’t need to go shopping any more.

This same time, years previous: cake candles, little devils stairs, civil rights learning tour: Georgia, the quotidian (5.2.22), a few good things, an under-the-stairs office nook, freezer coffee cake, PUERTO RICO, besties, the quotidian (5.2.16), carrot cake with cream cheese frosting, depression chocolate mayonnaise cake, baked-in-a-pot artisan bread.

Quotidian: daily, usual or customary;
everyday; ordinary; commonplace

Kimchi workshop.

Leafy lunch.

Fruity tiramisu.

More lunch leaves.

Ordinary fare.

Cream and curds.

I’m getting a little snobby about my ice cream.

Not right.

Doughnuts.

Changing lessons.

Feeding the grumpkin.

Heavy softness.

This same time, years previous: multigrain sourdough, five fun things, a birth party, the quotidian (4.27.20), both ends, that fuzzy space, full disclosure, thank you for holding us, the quotidian (4.27.15), mango banana helados, beware the bedsheets, drama trauma.

When the baby was just a couple weeks old, my daughter-in-law sent a photo of him to the family chat.

“Can I come snuggle him tomorrow?” I texted back, which was a foolish thing to ask, because then my younger daughter chimed in, “Me, too!” and I was like, Well, shoot.

When I arrived the next afternoon for my scheduled Baby Time, my older daughter was holding him, my younger daughter had just left, and my younger son was waiting for his few minutes of glory. 

I had to wait a whole freaking 45 minutes to get my hands on that magical little creature. 

I’m never making that mistake again.

***

You’ve heard the poem about babies not keeping, I’m sure.

The cleaning and scrubbing will wait till tomorrow,
For children grow up, as I’ve learned to my sorrow.
So quiet down, cobwebs. Dust go to sleep.
I’m rocking my baby and babies don’t keep.

When my kids were little, I thought that poem was whack. I cuddled them lots, but even as I marveled at their silky skin and fuzz-capped heads, I always longed to do something else. 

Anything else. 

Children bored me. Their persistent neediness weighed on me. I wanted to do my things on my time in my way. I adored them, but I didn’t (couldn’t?) relax into just being with them. 

Newsflash: that poem isn’t for mothers (even if it is titled “Poem for a Fifth Child”) — 

It’s for grandmothers. 

***

In the last couple weeks, I have been upgraded to babysitting in my home.

When they call to see if I’m available, my answer is almost always, Yes, please! 

Starting last week, they began leaving baby paraphernalia so they wouldn’t have to haul it over each time:an extra jar of frozen breastmilk, onesies, emergency disposables, a changing mat, a bottle. Now the baby has his very own dedicated bathroom shelf, which makes me ridiculously happy. Sometimes I even open the cupboard door just to gaze at the little things.

There is a baby in my life.

***

People always say the best part of being a grandparent is that you get to give them back to the parents, but I don’t agree. 

To me, the best part is the way the baby settles me. 

Holding him snuggled up against my cheek, inhaling his milk breath, brushing his warm skin with my lips every 20 seconds (I’m not even exaggerating, I’m a baby-kissing machine), my body relaxes. My nervous system settles. My anxiety and stress evaporate. 

Holding him is better than therapy. Better than a nap. Better than a glass of wine.

It’s bliss.

***

When the baby comes over, everything else goes out the window. EVERYTHING. I hold him and sniff him and talk to him for hours.

My husband gets a kick out of my new crush. When he gets home from work, he’ll often ask, “Did you get to see your baby today?” He leans into the word “your” and his eyes twinkle.

I take the question very seriously, though, and if the answer is yes, he gets the full rundown: 

How the baby peed five times and we had a long conversation on the sofa, and then I sat on the patio and let the dog sniff his toes, and then I gave him a bottle and he looked exactly like a space alien staring up at me, and how I’m pretty sure I discovered his favorite sleeping position because I can get him to fall asleep in five minutes flat — and so on. 

I’m not sad when he leaves, but there’s always a twinge of panic. How long will it be until I see him again? 

***

I think my mom is a little taken aback at how completely I’ve taken to my new role, how utterly absorbed I am (heck, I’m kinda floored) and then it recently dawned on me that my mother never got to experience what I have: geographical proximity to a first grandbaby. 

That physical closeness isn’t something I take for granted, not for even a second. There are no guarantees I’ll ever be in this situation again.

So yeah, those cobwebs can wait.

I’m a-gonna soak up all the baby lovin’ I can get.

This same time, years previous: my mother’s gift, the quotidian (4.8.24), how I trick myself into writing, the coronavirus diaries: week 57, whole wheat sourdough bread, making space, missing Alice, beginner’s bread, when popcorn won’t pop, the greening.