Growing up in a small, rural town allowed us many simple pleasures. We loved playing in the cornfield or soybean field (depending on crop rotation) which pressed against our back yard. I can recall the smell of the rain and the haphazard rush getting the clothes off the line before the wind’s work was undone. We still recall the garter snake stupefying my sister in the garden. And I remember when the Gubelman’s horse escaped their farm and roamed around the neighborhood streets, sending fear into my heart because “that horse bites.”

We had space to run free in our town, both physically and mentally. The amount of stories gave us imaginative play experience at its finest. My sisters and I had nicknames for everything and everybody. We devised new games and took turns being the “teacher.” The Information Age had not arrived, and therefore our ability to focus and create blossomed.

And with these simple pleasures, we had many home cooked meals. Not knowing at the time, these meals were the most cost-effective way to stretch funds from paycheck to paycheck. We never had a dishwasher growing up. “I have three dishwashers,” my mom would respond, gesturing to her children. Sharing a meal and cleaning up embraced the full notion of family—contributing, arguing, praying, and uniting our lives in ways that built kindness and resilience.

My mother seasoned many pasta sauces, soups, and other hearty family meals with bay leaves. And since my mom barely had time for getting to her meal while it was still warm, she certainly skipped removing the bay leaf. Therefore, someone was likely to find a bay leaf somewhere on their dinner plate.

This bay leaf discovery evolved into a symbolic trophy during the meal.  My mom defined it this way. However, this “prize” meant the champion was destined to wash supper dishes.

From then on, it was of utmost importance, in my childhood mind, to avoid the bay leaves at all costs. This meant scooping a shallow helping of supper, or taking extra time to fish out the “key components” I was willing to eat. The whole family would join in teasing the unfortunate bay leaf lottery winner.

Now that I have a daughter of my own, I continue these family moments of unity. Of course, there are many differences:  I am divorced, see my daughter only every other week, and live in an apartment with no backyard to speak of. We don’t hang clothes on the line, and we are past the Information Age. But the love and the unity of family remains the same. 

So when the weight of the world invades my thoughts, I focus on the moment and of the trophy found at the bottom of my soup bowl. I chuckle to myself, knowing full well, with whom I will be sharing my lottery winnings.