Every Monday night this summer, the farmhouse came alive with the sounds and smells of home cooking. You could hear the whir of the hand-cranked pasta machine from the kitchen window, smell the bread rising on the counter, and see two flour-dusted girls giggling as they worked side by side at the wooden island.
My nieces, Carole (12) and Abby (10), spent their summer learning how to cook from scratch; not from a box or a recipe card, but from memory, instinct, and the kind of wisdom passed down through generations.
Each week, they tackled a new menu. One Monday it was homemade pizzas with sauce simmered low and slow from garden tomatoes and fresh basil. Another, it was roasted chicken with crispy golden skin, served alongside hand-tossed salad dressed with olive oil, vinegar, and herbs snipped straight from the garden gate. We made tacos, both chicken and beef, served with a creamy avocado-jalapeño salsa. There were burgers and hot dogs from our own pasture-raised cattle. Every meal ended with a homemade dessert; cheesecakes with fresh fruit toppings, creamy ice cream churned by hand, and sometimes, just warm cookies shared before bedtime.
No meal was complete without a drink to match. The girls became quite the mixologists, stirring up strawberry-basil lemonades and raspberry-lime mocktails, garnished with mint sprigs from the garden. They learned not just how to cook, but how to serve; how to make a meal beautiful. They’d pick flowers for the table, fold napkins, and take turns presenting dinner to our whole family with proud, glowing faces.
When the cooking was done, we’d carry the food outside to the long wooden picnic tables beneath the big oak tree. The same spot where our great-grandparents once sat nearly a century ago, breaking bread after a long day in the fields. As the evening light softened over the pasture, we’d bow our heads to pray; thanking God for the food before us, the hands that prepared it, and the family gathered around.
Those Monday nights became the heartbeat of our summer. We laughed, we learned, we made memories that will linger far longer than the smell of freshly baked bread. But more than that, we passed on something priceless; a sense of patience, pride, and purpose. The girls discovered that the extra effort was always worth it; that homemade sauces and dressings, slow meals and simple ingredients, held a kind of joy that can’t be bottled or bought.
Each week, they grew more confident; rolling dough thinner, seasoning dishes by taste, and learning that good food takes time. They learned that a table isn’t just for eating; it’s for gathering. That food can be both work and art, and that the best meals aren’t measured in minutes but in memories.
Nearly one hundred years have passed since our family first settled on this land, yet somehow, not much has changed. We’re still working together, still feeding one another, still honoring the same rhythms of faith and hard work. Those Monday nights reminded me that what we raise here isn’t just cattle or crops — it’s character.
Because when we take the time to make something from scratch; a meal, a memory, a life, it becomes more than just work. It becomes worship.