I was barely a teenager when my mom
taught me to sew. It was intimidating at first, deciphering patterns
and holding tender fingertips so close to the machine's stabbing
needle. But in time it became second nature; I could practically
thread a bobbin in my sleep. Now, I often choose to sew by hand,
favoring the hypnotizing monotony of pulling each stitch taut.
My grandmother taught me to knit, but
my aunt taught me to purl. That first winter, I read the whole Harry
Potter series while knitting, propping the open books against a
coffee mug and turning the pages only when I finished a row. By the
time I started Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire I had finally
moved beyond a simple garter stitch.
I learned how to cook while spending
weekends in Grafton with my high school best friend. We'd choose
elaborate dishes from cookbooks and bring them to life in the kitchen
of her family's 100-year old farmhouse. Her mother taught me how to
eat fresh artichokes; one by one we plucked the leaves and scraped
the flesh away with our teeth.
Last week I made dinner with a friend
who was visiting from Omaha. She scrubbed potatoes as I chopped
onions and tossed them into a sizzling pan. To be honest, it was
awkward and bumbling at the start. There was tension between us, a
lingering trace of resentment, heartache, and distrust from a
decade-old rift. “I've missed you, you know” she finally said, as
she tucked the pan of potato wedges into the oven and gingerly shut
the door. “God, I've missed you too,” I agreed, pulling her into
a tight hug. In that moment, I realized we were making so much more
than dinner; we were making amends.
