A month and a half ago, we moved to a new home. Our move was unplanned and sudden. We enjoyed our last house and had planned to stay there for a while. Eventually, we planned to update a few things. But we appreciated the layout, the backyard with mature trees and a nightly sunset, our garden, friendly neighbors, our porch and music room, and the large kitchen pantry. We made good memories while living there: we got engaged, we got married, and we hosted a party with a bunch of loved ones just after our honeymoon.
But then, in late October, our friend Dan invited us to an open house. Immediately, we loved the house. It was bright and invigorating even on a gray, dull day. It had a similar layout, mature trees, a porch, a pantry with a window in it, and the updates we’d planned to make. We moved five days before Thanksgiving, and now we’re opening six drawers to find one spatula. But because the office in our new home is where the pantry was in our last house, we keep walking into the office for olive oil.
Moving is unsettling. It’s physically and emotionally difficult. In our last house, I’d just memorized where all our books were, and now I can’t find one of my dictionaries because I can’t find the box we haven’t unpacked yet.
While our belongings have been in boxes or not yet organized, I’ve become more aware that, when I cook, I need to feel nested. There’s something simultaneously energizing and calming to me about preparing to cook. Even when I don’t yet know what I’m going to make, I find serenity in the quiet brainstorm and ingredient gathering as the meal comes to me. I once experienced such powerful meditative calmness in such a moment that I wrote a poem.
I don’t quite feel nested yet in our new home, so cooking has felt different lately, a little more forced. The feelings of newness and unfamiliarity compete for more attention. I’m trying to regain that serenity. Just the act of cooking, though, can create rewarding patterns, like memorizing a recipe. So, each time I make a meal, I establish a new ritual in our new home, and each time I make a favorite recipe, I’m making our home smell like a good memory.
Today we signed papers selling our old house to new owners. As much as I love our new home, letting our last house go was a little tough. It felt like walking away from a part of myself. I will miss the garden we kept there.
Last summer, we spent a great deal of time in the garden working, appreciating, relaxing, and harvesting. We planted wildflowers and sunflowers from seeds in the center of a raised bed, then planted tomatoes and chiles around the perimeter. We planted a couple pots of herbs nearby on the porch.
Regularly, I harvested flower bouquets for the kitchen counter and for friends. Almost every day, I made a fresh batch of Pico de Gallo. The garden made preparing for dinner even more special than usual. Bringing in a huge bowl of sun-warmed tomatoes, chiles, herbs, and a vase of flowers each day was a very peaceful activity.
The Saturday that Dan invited us to the open house, we relaxed in new reading chairs we’d just put in our office. It was a quiet Saturday after a homemade breakfast of avocado toast and a peach smoothie. Maybe music was on, maybe football. Lyle and I read the text, crated the dogs, put on our jackets, and headed to the house. That day things lined up in such a way that showed us a new future.
For the next few weeks, we may still be walking into the office for olive oil, and I’ll do a few more laps around the house looking for a book. Moving is messy, expensive, stressful, and tiring, but it certainly creates perspective.
Soon, I’ll feel nested. Soon, as I prepare to cook, I’ll feel serene. I can’t wait to look back at photos of our new garden. I can’t wait to bring in serving bowls of ingredients for Pico de Gallo. I can’t wait to look back on a new favorite recipe. I’m ready for our new batch of memories.
