Goulash and Abandoned Tables

I'm standing in the kitchen, making my Mom's goulash recipe (in the same old pan she made it in) for the first time since she died, and in years actually. 

My husband doesn't care for it, but he is on his second week out of town, supporting search efforts for flood victims. My job is to keep things going here and to be grateful, which I am. And I am.

I realize how "white" this recipe is and cook the noodles in beef broth for an attempt at flavor. The miracle of this recipe is twofold. I remember it as delicious AND it doesn't have the staple of staples - cream of mushroom soup. 

My teenage son swoops in and out, shirtless, farting, and making animal sounds in a newly-empty-paper-towel-tube. 

Over my music playing, he shout-sings random lyrics that accompany a melody only he can hear in his solo earbud. 

I laugh and chase him off, but know I don't need to because he'll be gone soon enough. If he's anything like his big brothers, he'll have a girlfriend making steak on Saturday night or living another dream states away, in no time at all.

Just a few weeks ago, I took their kindergarten artwork down and hung up my Mom's in its place. Seasons are strange, but similar in brevity.

Last month, this same teen and I went kayaking. While he was fishing, I gravitated to our old stomping grounds. 

Once, there were swim diapers, mud fights, and free boats with plywood floors that had an excellent chance of needing to be towed back to shore. But that didn't discourage anyone enough to stay on the shore in the first place. 

It's closed to the public now and as I sat there alone, I remembered how often I wished I were alone when my kids were little. Being alone certainly comes, and my encouragement to all with littles, is try not to wish it away. The picnic table will not always be noisy and crowded.