Hospitality

The topic of hospitality has been popping up in different and unexpected ways all around me lately. I have always loved hospitality, whether it’s hosting a fun dinner party, helping run an event, bringing a plant or loaf of bread to a neighbor, or just popping a bowl of popcorn for the boys as we cuddle in for a movie night. I not only enjoy it, I feel a conviction about it. Scripture commands hospitality. It is core. Fundamental to the way the Body of Christ loves one another.

To be honest, I didn’t really think that there was necessarily more I needed to learn about hospitality. Perhaps a better way to say it is that I wasn’t looking for new ways to be hospitable or feeling the need to dig deeper. Then little conversations, or even quiet words, began popping up around me.

My mother-in-law was visiting, and we were talking about the importance of sharing food in our homes—how it’s important to always have enough and always have something to offer, even to the unexpected or last-minute guest. She even told me that she began to think differently about her budget when it came to food. That, while being wise and even as frugal as possible, instead of food being the budget line item that took the biggest hit, she would rather sacrifice in another area of life and spend well on food. Notice I said well, not necessarily a lot or unnecessarily, but rather that she wasn’t afraid to pick something off the shelf if she thought it would be a blessing to others.

Shortly after this conversation, I found myself in another talk with a young wife asking how to run her home. I’ve had quite a few of these conversations, and while I truly love them, I kept thinking that I was missing something in how I was explaining hospitality. Or perhaps they were missing what I was saying because they had never been taught hospitality clearly.

The sweetest hospitality is so natural—such an overflow of the heart—that it seems completely organic and without thought. The truth is far from that. Hospitality takes a lot of intentionality, planning, organization, a desire to engage in self-sacrifice, and a commitment to never forget your “why.” True, once it becomes an overflow of your heart, it does happen more and more organically and without stress at all. But as with all things, practice makes perfect.

More on the heart of it all—the *why*—later. Also, as a side note, my son’s headmaster used to say, “Practice makes permanent.” Isn’t that the truth? All too often we do not plan, organize, or practice self-denial and then want to show up as the perfect host. That’s not what you spent your time practicing!

Then two things happened back to back. I was at a friend’s home, teaching her how to make bread. She was sharing her heart with me about how she wanted to transition to an “ingredient home,” wanting to host well, but most importantly wanting to focus on the hospitality of the home—meaning her family members first.

That same day, I saw a recommendation for the book Unreasonable Hospitality. I’m almost done with it, and I would highly recommend it! It’s more of a business book, but it’s applicable to all areas of life.

Ok, that’s the background. What’s the point? I want to be more intentionally hospitable, and I want to write about it here. I do so much better getting my thoughts out this way. I want to organize my thoughts in a way that can hopefully be a blessing to others in the future. Most importantly, I want to notice that the Lord has brought these things to mind, and I want to steward them well.

Step 1: The Why…

Snow

There are some things so deeply engrained in me, things woven into my being, that I don’t really have words to describe.

Snow is one of those things. We’ve just had a massive snowfall here in Kentucky. The largest snowfall in 30 years. Suddenly, I don’t feel like I’m in Kentucky. I’m back in Montana. There is a fresh blanket of white over everything, the light is clean. The plumage of the winter birds stand out against the snow. Hovering above the scent of the snow is the redolence of the chimneys. Everything feel cozy and restful inside, while outside is a new playground.

Snow makes me feel like a kid again. With that comes a deep longing.

Just the important stuff

One of my absolute least favorite things is to get on Pinterest and look up a recipe or something I am interested in and then have to filter through a million pop ups and long descriptions of how the author feels about the recipe, a background story, and every caviat before actually getting to the recipe. Yes, there is a “jump to recipe” button, but it rarely works.

So, here is my promise to you. The Recipe comes first with no pop ups. That’s it. You will immediately see a recipe and then you will have all the chat after.

Enjoy!

Cooking with Generations

“No one who cooks, cooks alone. Even at her most solitary, a cook in the kitchen is surrounded by generations of cooks past, the advice and menus of cooks present, the wisdom of cookbook writers.”

-Laurie Colwin

I’ve thought about this quote a lot. It’s stayed with me because it feels like home.

I grew up in a family of bakers and cooks. I remember watching my great-grandmother make fresh blackberry cobbler and creamed corn. I learned countless things from my grandmother, and my mom’s recipe book is one of my most treasured possessions.

Beyond my own family, I was surrounded by women who cooked—and cooked well. But more than that, they shared. Recipes weren’t guarded. They were gifts.
Most people I knew grew up eating Mrs. Decker’s Whole Wheat Bread. My mom’s pies were legendary, especially those flaky crusts. Recipes were passed hand to hand, kitchen to kitchen, and they created real community in our church.

When I later moved to California, I was again surrounded by kind, hospitable, talented cooks—but something felt different. Recipes were closely guarded. And a couple of times, when I shared one of mine, it was passed along without any mention of where it came from.

This didn’t bother me because I needed credit—but because it was so different from what I had been taught. The community of sharing got lost, instead it was about the status of who had the best recipe.

Every recipe I grew up with had a name attached to it. A kitchen. A woman. Often a story. Food was never just food.

This space is my way of bringing that culture back.

The photo above is from a day cooking with my mother-in-law as she taught me her favorite Nicaraguan dishes. That’s exactly what I want this to be: a place to create, to learn, to pass things on. I’ll be sharing recipes, stories, and the things Kyle and I—along with the boys—create together. We love creating as a family.

If this encourages you, I hope you’ll create alongside us.

Welcome