It’s been a long time since I’ve sent anyone to school, but seeing all the young students passing by with their backpacks, I am reminded of what it was like in those hectic days. This is something I wrote looking back long ago. It’s from my book The Myth of the Yellow Kitchen.

I often think about those days long-ago of mothering. I want to capture it all again, tie a shoe, cuddle a child, kiss a cheek. When they were young, they used to complain, “You’re not listening.” And I try to listen all the time, to who they are, human, loving, complex.

For me, there is always something of a mystery about the children and how they turned out. How come they are all such good cooks with different styles of cooking? Why did all three intermarry? How did these products of the 60s, flower children, the experimenters with drugs, with sex, with lifestyles, learn to be such wonderful parents? They ended up liking themselves, liking each other, and liking me.

I feast my eyes on my children, grown beautiful, building an order to their lives, having their own children. I feast my eyes on the richness of the harvest and the miracle of it all.