As I was coming into the kitchen this morning to make myself a steaming cup of love, I could still smell the scent of garlic from last night's dinner. It wasn't offensive, and probably made more aromatic by the memory that it wasn't I who made dinner, but my lovely Devon who labored to bring us a wonderful meal.

Devon is Miss Independance to the thousandth degree, so I know better than to offer help when she feels she's "in charge". That's o.k. I've learned, after many attempts of trying to show her how to doing something "right" and having them end with her angry with me, that there are many paths to "right", and I have to let her take her path. And besides, if I'm in the kitchen hovering, it completely cancels out the elation of having someone else do this for me!

So I took this opportunity to sit with my book and peek over the top of it, and on occasion, watch her from afar as she whipped up her magic. Straining, because she was blessed with the "short gene" from both her grandmothers, to reach the food processor from the high cabinet. Making her own pesto, slicing her bread, and I'm sure her secret joy at everyone filtering upstairs because "it smells really good up here". I'm grateful that Devon likes to make dinner, she loves experimenting with food, and always mentions, in a not-so-subtle way that, "we need to open a restaurant mom, SERIOUSLY". Food stuff aside, I'm just grateful for Devon. SERIOUSLY.