I was having a tough day. My to-do list was endless.
I surveyed the scene—the 150 boxes lined up on my dining room table that I needed to prepare for the holidays, the chores that needed to be done, the laundry, the dishes . . .
But then there were these little eyes looking at me. Eyes that speak.
It happened to be a rare moment when just Chaim Boruch and I were home alone.
And then I saw it.
The recipe.
I smiled at Chaim Boruch and asked him if he would like to bake cookies with Mommy for Shabbat.
He nodded yes. His nod really speaks volumes. You can see as his eyes shine bright and his smile emerges, that yes . . . indeed . . . this was a good thing to do!
Well. I’m not sure I ever baked cookies the way I did yesterday. There was something different about this recipe, something that I haven’t noticed before.
The flour was “dumped” into the mixer with his little uncoordinated hands, gently braced by mine.
The eggs he was interested in rolling on the countertop were gently steered to safer surfaces, and the teaspoons of vanilla were measured shakily . . . but only after we took time to inhale the calming aroma.
Yes. There was something different about this recipe. A recipe that blocked out its surroundings. A recipe that focused on every ingredient, every spoon, every measuring cup . . . every step. A recipe that included ingredients I had not seen before.
We giggled. We laughed. We had flour on our face. Indeed, a new recipe emerged.
A recipe for love. A recipe for patience. A recipe for determination. A recipe for devotion. A recipe for dedication. A recipe for trust. A recipe for belief.
A secret recipe from the cookbook of life.
