Years ago, I had an epiphany while talking to my friend Robbie. I can’t remember the context, but during our conversation she stated, very matter-of-factly, that there are gardeners and then there are people who like gardens. I knew which category she fell into. She had the vision and courage to till up a gigantic section of backyard that bordered acres of farmland and turn it into a stunning, English-style cottage garden. Not only did she accomplish that, she took care of it afterward, too. It was the same with her vegetable garden. All the digging and the weeding and the occasional relocating of plants was, if you can imagine this, RELAXING.

And that probably gives you a clue as to which category I fell into.

Up until then, though, I would have boldly claimed that I liked to garden. At the time, I had a good-sized vegetable plot of my own, hemmed with marigolds to keep the bunnies and deer away (for the record, they did not), but it wasn’t the place I retreated when I needed to unwind. Weeds popping up between the rows made me feel guilty. So did zucchini the size of small submarines that I would inevitably find hiding among the green beans. And flowers? Loved those, too! I dreamed about planting delphiniums, poppies, and lavender when I wasn’t on a deadline. Promised myself that WHEN I HAD MORE TIME things would be different. But when I needed to recharge, I still grabbed a book and found a sunny spot in the yard to plant my chair instead.

I decided I was okay with that.

Until I started writing The Gathering Table last year.

One snowy winter afternoon I hit my word count ahead of schedule, which gave me time to page through a cooking magazine I’d bought. There were glossy photos of food that looked too pretty to eat. Tips and hacks to make those hours in the kitchen go more smoothly.

Except. . .I didn’t spend hours in the kitchen anymore.

My husband and I are empty-nesters and tend to keep things simple at mealtime. Once in a while, I send a picture of something especially yummy and visually appealing to our adult children to show off a little, but overall, the majority of our meals include fish or chicken and a vegetable I didn’t grow myself.

And that’s when it hit me.

Did I even like to cook?

I took a few minutes to examine the evidence. The dozens of gadgets stashed in kitchen drawers will attest to the fact that I know how to chop, grate, peel, dice, and remove the pit from an avocado without a visit to the emergency room. I tell my husband at least twice a week that I would love to own a restaurant. I have stacks of magazines filled with pictures of food and delicious recipes. . .

But when I want to have fun or relax, I don’t automatically reach for my apron and try to create my own culinary masterpiece.

The guilt returned, forcing me to do a little more soul-searching.

Was I in denial (again)? Was I someone who didn’t like to garden or cook? While wrestling with those questions, I picked up Shauna Niequist’s Bread and Wine, one of the books I’d been reading for inspiration and read this. . .

“What makes me feel alive and connected to God’s voice and spirit in this world is creating opportunities for the people I love to rest and connect and be fed at my table. I believe it’s the way I was made, and I believe it matters.”

     There was my epiphany.

It’s the way I was made, too.

From the moment my six-year-old-self slathered peanut butter on Saltine crackers and proudly served them to my mother and a visiting friend, I somehow instinctively knew that food makes people feel welcome. When we open our home, it feels a lot like when I sit down at the computer. I’m excited and yet strangely at peace. Like I’m doing what I’m meant to do.

So, here’s where I landed.

Do I like to cook?

Yes.

But what I really love is feeding people.

And this is what else I realized.

I’m totally okay with that, too.😊