The Butter Dish

You can tell a lot about a family by looking at their butter dish.

If it's crystal... no kids.

If it matches the plates... maybe one child, or at least a newborn.

If it is chipped and/or mis-matched or does not have the top... probably a few children.

If there is no butter dish, only a small dessert plate, and the contents are mashed beyond buttery recognition... you are at my house.

:)

My mother is a genius in the realm of butter dishes.

She has a metal one.

Completely lightweight, sporting a classy black handle, this butter dish is indestructible. And when I opened it that first evening, the butter was smooth and unblemished. How lovely! I couldn't wait to sink my knife in and spread it's goodness all over our french bread.

Fast forward a few days.

Madly dashing around the kitchen, putting the finishing touches on a meal for the masses, I opened the butter dish and my heart sank. Gone were the smooth edges, the firm corners, the anything-that-remotely-resembles a stick of butter. In it's place was a big messy mosh of creamy yellow. With lots of bagel bits mixed in. The culprit was clearly Sports Fan. He had been scarfing down bagels since we arrived, and his buttering skills had not improved a whit.

I sighed a Mama-sigh and wondered to myself if I would ever possess a smooth wedge of butter again.

I thought about my parents, and how they would once again have smooth butter, but -alas- not until after we leave.... and could I even salvage what was left and make it presentable for the table?

And then my Mom walked in the door, home from work. The grand kids surrounded her and hugged her, calling out to the various siblings and relatives...

Grandma's home! Grandma's home!

Little Love danced and twirled, Little Boo jumped up and down. And my Mom's tired face broke into a grin. She hugged me and surveyed the dinner plans while the kids regaled her with stories from the day. A young babe was placed into her arms for a fervent snuggle, and a glass of wine was poured...

I cleaned up the butter in the dish that night, adding half of another stick to make it look decent. But I didn't begrudge the messiness. It's another way these children thrust themselves into our lives. The mastery of spreading butter neatly will come another day. For now, they have a more important task.

They teach us to look beyond the mess and the noise. To wonder at the mundane and the beautiful. To notice their handiwork, even in the butter, and realize that you will miss these days. These days when even your butter dish tells the story of the crazy love and joy that is your life.

:)


~cross-posted to DFW Catholic.