Deep on a Sunday afternoon, there's no place I'd rather be than at my Mom and Dad's. My mother will have a porkloin with sauerkraut roasting in the oven, my husband will be catching a nap on the den couch, my father will be giving me a tour of the "ponderosa" (as he calls his yard).
The girls might be in the kitchen making chocolate covered strawberries with my mother whom they call Mommom. I'll be out in the yard examining my father's pear tree with him ("Can you believe the size of this, daughter?"), his new hibiscus, and the New Guinea impatiens he'll be planting aroung the oak tree out front. My kids call my father Hobba. It started with my son and much as we tried to undo it, it stuck. Now, so proud, he has a license plate bearing the name!
But we'll all be called in later to this yellow diningroom. To me, this room exudes warmth, love, good conversation, lucious food. Mommom's best china is used, the sideboard opened and filled with our dessert--probably stroufli, small Italian dough balls smothered with honey and sprinkles. And the strawberries! You sit a little straighter here and you're aware of the goodness around you. How is it that a room can fill your soul and that dining here can be such a joyous experience?
I'll leave with a goody bag full of enough food to feed us the next night. Bellies full, the girls might nod off in the car on the way home. We leave happy, content.
Someday I hope my kids will feel the same way about our home, but for now, it's so good to go to Mommom and Hobba's!