Cooking With The Rain

Sometimes, I feel like a kid again, staring out the window during story time, wishing I could just *do* something about the rain. Not stop it – that’s silly, even for second graders – but somehow change the feeling it brought. That grayness. The way everything seemed stuck. Last year felt like one long rainstorm. My first year teaching, to be honest? It was rough. There were days I just wanted to shut the door to room 214 and disappear into a pile of textbooks.

It’s funny how much you learn from kids about dealing with feeling helpless. They get frustrated too, obviously. A tower falls down, the glue doesn't work—the wails are real. But then they pick up another block, try again. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. The important thing isn’t avoiding failure; it's just…getting back to building. That’s what I’m trying to remember now, these lazy days of summer after a really long year.

My grandmother started teaching me how to make Sunday gravy when I was little. It’s a project. A *real* project. It takes hours – like, seriously, hours – and it changes depending on the meat you use, the tomatoes, even the weather that day. You can't rush it. The first few times, I messed it up spectacularly. Too salty, too watery, just…wrong. She’d just smile, take a bite (always polite), and say something like, "Well, we learned *something* today." It wasn't criticism; it was this quiet encouragement to try again, knowing the next batch would be closer to what she envisioned.

It’s similar with feeling overwhelmed, I think. You hit a point where you feel completely powerless – that rain just keeps falling and there's nothing you can do about it. That helplessness is heavy. But then, like those Sunday gravies, you realize it’s not about stopping the rain; it’s about figuring out how to cook with it. What can I learn from this? How can I adjust my approach next time?

I've been spending a lot of time in Fishtown this summer. Just…being. Long mornings at the kitchen table, reading, cooking. It sounds simple, and maybe it is, but there’s something about routine and quiet that helps you re-center yourself after so much chaos. Cooking, especially, has been restorative. The process of transforming raw ingredients into something nourishing feels like a small act of control in a world that often feels chaotic. My grandmother's gravy recipe – the slow simmering, the careful adjustments – it’s a lesson in patience and perseverance, two things I definitely needed to cultivate last year.

I talked to my aunt Rose down in Delaware County last week. She always has a way of cutting through the noise. We were just talking about summer plans when I mentioned how drained I felt from teaching. She didn't offer any platitudes or advice about "self-care." Instead, she told me about her own struggles raising kids, navigating family drama, and building a life for herself. Just hearing someone else share their difficulties - *real* difficulties – made me feel…less alone. It reminded me that everyone faces storms; it's just the way things are sometimes.

There’s this idea that people get stronger with adversity. And maybe that’s true, but it's not a simple process of being beat up and suddenly becoming tougher. It's more like building muscle, I think. You have to consistently challenge yourself, push your limits, and then rest and rebuild. The feeling when you finally accomplish something you thought was impossible – that’s what resilience feels like. That Sunday gravy simmering low and slow, eventually turning into this rich, dark sauce…it’s a small victory, but it means something.

I don't have any grand wisdom to offer about bouncing back from hard times. But I do know this: sometimes the best thing you can do is just keep showing up – for your students, for your family, for yourself – even when the rain keeps falling. And maybe, just maybe, figure out a way to cook with it. Maybe make some gravy.