Simmering Slowly: Lessons in Growth

Sometimes, when I’m stirring that Sunday gravy, and it's smelling exactly right—a little sweet, a lot savory, all those herbs just singing—I think about this idea of getting better at things. Not in some big, flashy way, but slowly. Like the sauce itself; it doesn't become good overnight. It’s layers, built over hours, simmering with intention.

It feels like there was a time when I thought I had "it." You know? That feeling you get when you think you’ve figured something out. In college, maybe, or even that first year of teaching. Like I understood the kids in room 214, their anxieties and excitements, the things they needed from me. But that was just the beginning. It wasn’t *understanding*.

This summer has been quieter than most, a deliberate sort of quiet. I spent a lot of time at the kitchen table in Fishtown, trying to perfect my grandmother's gravy recipe. She started it years ago – she would always say “it’ll get better with time.” It's more than just following instructions; it's about recognizing when something needs adjusting, a little more oregano here, a pinch less salt there. You learn by doing, and mostly you learn by messing up and realizing what *doesn't* work.

There’s this low hum of worry sometimes – the kind that whispers in your ear and asks, "Are you still learning? Are you valuable?" It's not about some grand ambition to be famous or brilliant; it’s just about the quiet fear of becoming irrelevant, a cog that stops turning because it hasn't been oiled.

I realized I hadn’t really pushed myself in a long time. Things had gotten… comfortable. Not bad, necessarily, but comfortable. And comfort can be a trap. It lets the doubts settle in, whispers promises of ease while erosion slowly happens under the surface. Learning something new isn't about sudden leaps; it’s about those small nudges, pushing just a little beyond what feels easy.

The gravy project has been my nudge this year. I was pretty sure I knew how to make pasta sauce before. My mom makes a decent one. But *her* mother's recipe? That felt like uncharted territory. It forced me to pay attention – to the subtleties of browning meat, the way different herbs release their aroma at different temperatures. There’s real satisfaction in recognizing an improvement, even if it's just a fraction of a degree better than last time.

It isn’t about becoming an expert overnight. It’s also not about setting yourself up for constant failure—it has to be something you can actually work on, something that fits into the gaps in your day. Like finding fifteen minutes to practice drawing a little bit each morning. Or reading one article a week in a field I know absolutely nothing about. Those tiny efforts add up, slowly but surely.

I went back to Delaware County twice this summer, spent time with my family. They’re… they're something else. No one ever lets you coast. They see potential where you might only see limitations. It reminded me that growth isn't a solitary pursuit; it's fueled by connection and a gentle (sometimes not-so-gentle) push from those who care about you. And I’m going back to room 214 in September, rested, ready to learn more than ever before.