The Week That Feels Suspended
Every year, right after Christmas, my quiet kitchen feels like it’s bursting at the seams. I always wish I had a second refrigerator—one for the meals I’m still cooking, another for the mountain of leftovers. When we lived on our farm in Indiana, I could set things outside on the patio to stay cold. Down here in Florida, there’s no such luxury.
It’s a good reminder that this in-between week isn’t about perfection. It’s about letting things be a little too full, a little too human.
Cooking Without Trying Too Hard
This week, I pause. I make soups from whatever’s left, or turn scraps into breakfast frittatas. Sometimes burritos. Sometimes tacos. The fridge becomes a puzzle I get to solve one meal at a time.
A frittata, especially, feels elegant—something I can make for Saturday brunch when friends stop by. It’s unfussy but intentional, which is what this week asks of me too.
If you love finding meaning in simple meals, you might also like A Fridge, a Skillet, and a Little Imagination.
The Sounds of Stillness
At night, I sit in the living room with the Christmas tree still glowing. The rest of the lights are off, and that quiet, soft glow feels like a small kind of magic.
The air conditioner hums through its cycle, the fridge clicks on, the ice drops into its tray—each sound grounding me back into stillness. Even the morning light shifts this time of year; it’s cooler, bluer, a reminder that seasons can change quietly too.
It’s in that quiet that I breathe, think, and give thanks—for what I wanted, what I didn’t, and what still managed to shape me anyway. God has a way of teaching through the pauses as much as the rush.
Cleaning as Renewal
Before the new year, I always do a deep clean: the stove, the oven, the utensil drawers. It’s satisfying in a way few things are. I put on Diana Krall and a few others from my winter playlist, and the work becomes almost meditative. The kitchen goes from cluttered to calm, and in that reset, I start to feel ready again. And I’m not the only one who slows down this time of year—NPR shared a story on finding calm during the holiday rush that reminded me why these pauses matter.
The First Coffee of the New Year
When I finally cook again, it feels like renewal. A pot of soup simmering, the first biscotti from Mazzaro’s, a good cup of coffee. Nothing elaborate—just enough warmth to remind me why I love this kitchen in the first place.
A quiet kitchen doesn’t mean an empty one. It means a kitchen that listens.
The Light Comes Back
So I leave one light on—the one above the stove—and let it burn while I think about the meals ahead. Because stillness is part of the recipe too.
In this quiet space, the next season begins—not with noise, but with calm.
