The beautiful words of my friend Elizabeth pricked tears in my eyes. Food and the bringing of it has been passed through the generations of women in my family and I’m passing it on to my daughters. To hear how a simple meal, made with love, can show love blessed me, I hope it blesses you too!
My fork was cutting into the flaky crust of a chicken pot pie.
“Did she buy this from the store?” “No. She made it herself.”
It was a busy week for my family. My brother was getting married and my parents were playing host to family from out of town. The schedule was packed with things that needed doing, and in the middle of the crowded to-do list was making meals for the people in their house.
It was there on the list until it wasn’t.
I considered the twisted edge of the pie, pinched just so. The gravy, perfectly seasoned. The smell of sage met you from across the kitchen, but didn’t overpower the flavor. The chicken was well- cooked, the vegetable medley really was a song.
To go along with our supper, we had a loaf of sourdough break that had come from the same woman’s kitchen and a pan full of fresh apple cake.
On the counter beside the dinner sat our breakfast for the following morning. Two pans full of squishy orange rolls and a family-sized sausage and egg casserole.
A lasagna for another dinner was tucked into the freezer.
All handmade and dropped off.
My mother never asked for these things. Didn’t have to. They came from friends she meets with regularly, and as she shared all about the upcoming busyness, there was simply not a question.
They wanted to help, knew she would need it, and they didn’t wait to be asked.
“We’re doing this,” they said. “I’ll take breakfast, and she’ll take dinner.”
The design of a pie crust is hardly what makes it taste good. It’s superfluous to make it so formal. But this pie was made for a friend by a friend.
A small lump formed in the back of my throat as I swallowed that first bite.
Paul in the Bible didn’t know anything about chicken pot pie when he told the Corinthians to bear one another’s burdens, but I think this must be what he meant.
To be cared for in such a tangible way, to be nourished by a meal prepared not in a hurry, but with tenderness and attention. It was friendship baked, boxed up, and carted across town. It was love, pure and simple, and I could taste it.
