Time, Stirred Slowly

I chopped the onions and zucchini, gave a boost to the stock, and pulled the arborio rice from the top shelf. I could smell the sizzling pan even before I turned on the heat.

“Shoot. I don’t have white wine!” I tell Tim.

He gave me the typical answer: “Do I need to go to the store?”

“Nah. I can wait until tomorrow.”

I take a few seconds to admire my readiness before I put everything away. No risotto for dinner tonight.

The tomorrow is what I’m savoring right now—the fact that I can finish writing this slice, head to the store for white wine, and come home to cook in the middle of the day while Elena enjoys one last week of summer camp.

Time with and without her is such a complex thing. I recently went to a week-long workshop while she visited grandparents with Tim. I missed her every minute of every single day. I told myself, “Don’t do this again every summer!” When we all returned to Miami, I indulged in Mama-Elena time. We ran across the apartment, played hide-and-seek, and learned the lyrics to old Disney movies.

Hakuna Matata.

Time with her is life. Time away from her is weird.

It’s okay to miss her, as long as I make up for the time apart. It’s okay for her to see that Mama goes but always comes back. It’s all just okay.

It’s also okay to put everything away long enough to get the essential ingredient. The risotto will be much better for it.

Maybe that’s what I’m really savoring—the rhythm of coming and going, of holding close and letting go.

Now, off to the store!