I love when my husband makes me coffee in the morning––and I love really good, black coffee.

I love homemade bread with plenty of butter and a pinch of sea salt, sunny fall days, and unexpected acts of kindness.

I love fresh flowers and good quality candles, a big mug that feels comforting––like a well worn sweatshirt.

I love people who love my kids, cozying up under a soft blanket, and donning an oversized sweater. I love afternoon thunderstorms and leafing through beautiful cookbooks with doable recipes.

I love listening to my kids laugh, their giggles and grins spreading joy through the whole house. I love when they crawl into my lap first thing in the morning, sleep still in their eyes as they nuzzle their way into my chest.

Like many people, I started baking a lot more after the pandemic started. While I have yet to jump on the sourdough bandwagon, I did find myself mixing flour and sugar and butter together on a much more regular basis than I used to. When I’d scroll through my Instagram feed, it was obvious I wasn’t alone in that practice.

Why do we do that? Why do we find ourselves with a big mixing bowl and a spatula and a newfound desire to use our ovens?

Science, so I’ve heard, has a lot to say about what sugar and carbs do to our brains and bodies (like increasing dopamine levels, which brings us pleasure but is also why practicing moderation is necessary). Yet then why do we sometimes find satisfaction in baking, even when we’re not the ones to eat the fruits of our labor? Why does the act of making cookies or bread or whatever else seem to bring some sense of comfort?

I can tell they’re nervous. My son, Elijah, says as much, and my daughter, Isabel, sits quietly in the car. She’s almost never quiet, her silence a sure sign of apprehension. We pull into the parking lot and climb out of the minivan, my twins donning new backpacks, lunchboxes and masks. As we walk down the sidewalk, their nervousness spills over with a few tears and a thousand questions.

What if we don’t know where to go?
When do we eat lunch?
Where will you pick us up?
What if we forget something?

“I’m pregnant,” I tell my husband, matter-of-factly. By the fourth kid, the announcements get a little less creative and a little more impromptu. We stand in the middle of the kitchen, dirty dishes piled high in the sink and a stack of unopened mail next to us. I can see him start to lean on the corner of the counter, trying to gain his composure.

His eyes grow wide. “No… you’re not. Seriously?”

We’re planners and preparers, prone to meticulously calculate my cycle and predict when pregnancy can and cannot happen. This one takes us both by surprise.

I show him the positive pregnancy test, revealing those two pink lines like a confession. I always wanted one more; he was content with three. I’m unsure how to interpret his stunned silence.

“Are you mad?” I ask, trying not to cry.

I’ve had this recipe sitting in my drafts for months, waiting to get posted. But every time I’ve gone to write and publish, I don’t have the words. It’s not because of the recipe itself. This granola has become one of my go-to, simple, make-ahead breakfasts. It’s because when the world feels like it’s falling apart, why bother posting about granola?

It feels dumb, honestly.

I’ve shared about this tension before, about how it’s strange to do ordinary, mundane things when people are deeply suffering. I want to fix it, to make a difference, to bring about real, lasting change.

“I just need to lay down for a few minutes,” I tell my husband, Colson, as soon as he walks in the door from work. It’s been a day, and I can feel the exhaustion in every muscle. The head cold making its way through our home seems to have camped out with me longer than everyone else. I also feel like I’ve been on the verge of throwing up pretty much all day long.

I collapse into bed, basking in the quietness of my room. Not three minutes later, I hear screaming.

You know the kind—it’s more than a tantrum and more than a bump or bruise. I should probably go see what’s going on.

I throw off my comforter and stomp down the stairs, a bit too annoyed at the audacity of my child to interrupt my precious alone time with her yelling.

“What’s going on?” I ask Colson, with more than a hint of frustration.

“Izzy fell. I think it’s bad.”

One of my goals this past year was to have more fun.

I am pragmatic to a fault, so I confess, I had to put “fun” on my to-do list. As I write, I can see the notecard taped above my desk with my goals—fun written near the top in pink permanent marker.

Maybe you can guess how well that goal is going. I think I can safely assume 2020 went nothing like anyone planned and 2021 hasn’t been much easier. Maybe fun has been hard to come by. Even if this season has brought sweet moments at home or unexpected gifts, maybe you’re still feeling pressed down by a thousand tiny weights. Or maybe it’s one big boulder you’re carrying. Whatever the case, whether you’re anxious about this fall’s school situation, grieving injustice, fearful about the future, discouraged, or just plain tired, I want to remind us of something.

You are still allowed to have fun.

How we cook and eat is one of the most beautiful ways to express ourselves, our family traditions, and our cultures, and there’s an intimacy that develops when we eat with others.

Phil Rosenthal, creator of Everybody Loves Raymond and star of Somebody Feed Phil said, “You know you sit down and you eat with people you just met, and by the time you’re done eating, you’re a little bit closer. That’s the idea, right?”

I think that’s so true–and so powerful. Eating together can be a catalyst for understanding, community building, and even healing.

It’s been hard over the last year to eat with others the way we used to in the pre-pandemic days, but there are still ways to savor and celebrate the beauty of food and each other. My kids and I have been reading a variety of children’s books all about food, family, and culture, and it’s opened their eyes–and my own–to a culinary world much bigger than our own kitchen table.

My mom’s body laid flat on the hospital-style bed in her bedroom. My dad, sister, and I removed her soiled clothes and put clean ones onto her lifeless body. That was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Her frail frame felt unexpectedly heavy—heavy in my arms, heavy in my soul. Then we waited for her body to be picked up.

Eventually, two men arrived. But they came earlier than we had anticipated, so we asked for more time. Don’t take her. Not yet. We’re not ready.

They kindly came back a few hours later, wrapped her in a black bag and carried my mom’s body out the front door. Just like that, gone. We stood in the entryway for who knows how long hugging, sobbing, clinging onto each other.

I admit it. I’ve bitten off more than I can chew, as the saying goes.

I’m sitting here writing at the eleventh hour when I have multiple deadlines looming over me. I owe another friend some notes for a piece she’s helping me with, and I told her I’d get those to her days ago. Okay, a week ago. It’s still not done, and the list of emails I have yet to respond to grows as quickly as the laundry pile in the corner of my bedroom.

I don’t tell you this because I have some notion that busyness is a badge of honor. I’ve worn myself out far too many times to want to wear that badge anyway. Besides, if you look at my actual calendar, we’re not really that busy. We’re still living a contained life thanks to COVID precautions, and our days mostly consist of LEGOs and riding bikes in the front yard.

But I want the work I do and the way I spend my days to feel productive–and motherhood doesn’t always make that easy. I (kind of) like the feeling of having a deadline looming over me because I know it means something will eventually get done. A box will get checked off. I’ll finally sense accomplishment.

Last year around this time, the Coffee + Crumbs team brainstormed how we’d “pivot” our annual Mother’s Day Brunch. We ended up taking the brunch where everything else went: online. We laughed, cried, sat in front of our screens eating breakfast for one and drinking solo mugs of coffee, brunching via Zoom.

It was not what we originally planned, but we are moms. We know how to adapt. We know how to change a diaper in the back of the minivan with only Chick-Fil-A napkins found in the car door to use as wipes. We know how to pull out leftovers from the fridge and pantry, cut them into small bites and proudly proclaim, “It’s snack dinner tonight!” We know how to convince our hurting preschooler that his doctor visit is going to be a fun date with mom (or at least it will end with donuts).

I’ve never been great at keeping plants alive. Every year, I eagerly purchase tomatoes and cucumbers, lettuce and green beans. I block off time on a weekend to put them in the ground, optimistic this will be the year I finally make salads and sauces, sides and stews with what I grew in my own backyard. Last year, the tomatoes withered by July and a rabbit ate the entire lettuce plant within 24 hours. We got a few green beans and a cucumber—a successful crop, I suppose, if you compare it to previous summers. But there are only so many side dishes you can make when you harvest two or three green beans at a time.