In June we went to France. Rose. Dave. Sunny. Edie. Henry. Ian. Sarah. Findlay. Alex. James. Lindsay. Luke. Charlie. Rex. Chris. Lindsay. We were missing two. We stayed in a renovated barn. We went on adventures during the day, gathered to swim in the afternoon, lounged over aperitifs before dinner, then the cooking began.
This family, my husband’s family, is fluid in the kitchen. It’s no wonder; we travel en masse all the time. We’re practised. And we all love to eat. We find ingredients at the market and use them as a launching point for what to eat that night. We buy wine early in the trip so we can savour the bottles, discuss them, and buy more of our favourites before we leave. We feed the kids earlier, clean them up, then settle in. This routine allows not only for more space at the table, it also permits the odd F-bomb drop without major repercussions.
My family is the same. Togetherness usually takes place closer to home, but the rhythm is similar: Prepping, drinking, cooking, laughing, disagreeing, sharing. We all have our roles. A good dishwasher is king.