I've got this Jamie Oliver cookbook, it's over 10 years old now (The Return of the Naked Chef) but I still haven't cooked half the recipes in it. And maybe it's the just turning 40 thing, but I'm a bit goal-focused at the moment. Stuff like kayaking, or getting back into running (and saying to myself "I'll run a quicker 10K in five years time than I did five years ago", because that would buck the trend of gradually decaying), or thinking I've got to act on stage and learn lines from Shakespeare for the sheer joy and challenge of it (this often happens when I've been to the RSC, which I did, last weekend, for a birthday treat, because something about seeing actors at the very top of their game brings out the struggling little shadow of a non-actor in me, and I go all dappy improvising blank verse while walking near the Avon.) So I said, out loud, in a sort of gauntlet-being-thrown-down voice, "I'm going to cook every recipe in this book by the end of the year." And that'll include things with pomegranates in them, which is a very big deal for me indeed, because I can't think of a faffier fruit. All that fiddling about with a pin. And for what payoff?
But by lunchtime today Kate had already knocked out some Moroccan chickpea flatbreads from p. 235, although I got some credit for galvanising and inspiring variety. Pukka tasty they were too. So I'll have to choose something different now. Maybe, it being Easter, I'll attempt Mary's Saturday Soup and Dumplings [p.86].
So we're chowing down, all four of us, and I started chatting about the events around what's come to be known as Good Friday, just finding out what Miriam (5) and Theo (so nearly 4, only a couple of sleeps to go) already know, and trying to pass on the story in a way they, we, can understand (which is quite a discipline, keeping it jargon free.) And something Miriam said, precisely what is lost in the actual shuddering beauty of the moment, prompted us to get some grape juice and just weave (jargon warning!) communion into it, which involved stitching together some other things Jesus talked about, stuff like him being the Bread of Life, as well as what he meant by his body being broken (not quite so hard for Theo to identify with Roman brutality at the moment, he's morphed into quite a bloodthirsty phase, all role plays revolving around Giant-killing and setting fire to Giants and stabbing Giants in the eye...) and what he meant when he said at the Last Supper "do this in remembrance of me."
And it all just flowed, with our two children talking about how God lives in their heart and howJesus died so that they can say sorry to God and it all be OK, and it was just how I want all of my Christian life to be: a natural conversation, nothing awkward or ceremonial about it, and with a clear sense of God being in the room with us, not far off.
[Sure, a half hour later our two are squabbling over something or other on the climbing frame and swapping insults, but then there's grace and forgiveness enacted in miniature and it's all restored.]
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