I attended a funeral this morning. This is the second time I have attended the funeral of a friend's mother since my own mother's funeral on May third. As I sat listening, I was thinking about the family's grief, wanting to be there for them knowing first hand how comforting it is when others are sharing this time with you. But there were definite, personal things going on within my own heart too, I felt a strong squeezing. The stillness of the moment, the words and the songs provided a stage of familiarity.
As soon as I walked in the back door, I kicked off my black pumps, slipped an apron over my head, promptly tied it in the back and began to cook. For several uninterrupted hours straight I mixed, chopped, stirred, baked, and sauteed with deftness and abandon.
Then I sat down and sighed. The curative powers of cooking, good therapy.