Jodi Hills

So this is who I am – a writer that paints, a painter that writes…

Tag Archives: kitchen


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Dish towels and button downs.

They differed in so many ways. Grandma Elsie would have laughed at the thought—harder than she’d laugh when beating us at a card game whose rules went unexplained — “iron my dish towels?????” I’m not sure a towel was dry long enough in her house for it to be ironed. A constant rotation from laundry to sink. From hot pan, to table wipe, to sticky face. Tucked inside her waist, then back to the laundry. I know for sure that after ironing mine, and hanging them just so on the rack, that’s all my mother. 

But too, as I stand aproned and covered in flour, baking the bread that could easily be bought at the nearest boulangerie, I am my grandma. 

Margaux, 14, will only know them by what I share. She loves the bread. She may not call it by name, but as she Elsies her way back for another slice, I think she knows. Excited for her shopping trip, I tell her to wear a button down, for speed in the dressing room, and to save on her hair and make-up. She smiles, and Ivies her way to Paris. 

One day, will she Jodi her dish towels? I can’t be sure. But while I am here, she will feel us all, and know she is home. 

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Tugged.

We could have been aproned from her apron, but still we dove right in. I imagine the brunt of what she wiped from bowl to hand to apron ended up on the front of my shirt and the side of my face. This tug to be near defied all things sticky. I just wanted to be a part of it. Of what she was doing. Baking. Creating. Becoming. And she allowed it, because wouldn’t it all get washed, not in the laundry, but in my attempt to help with the dishes. 

With the scent wafting through the oven’s heat, she filled the double sink. Extra bubbles. She asked if I wanted a stool. I shook my head no. The cupboard below was already scuffed from my tennis shoes as I placed my hands on the side of the cupboard and hoisted myself up on the edge of the sink. Belly balanced. Feet dangling. Completely wet. I danced my hands through the water. A temperature far less than what she could handle, I crawl stroked my way through the pile. Did she rewash them? I don’t think so, at least never in front of me. 

When I could no longer breathe from the weight of balancing, I jumped down. Wiped my hands, my face, my neck and belly, all on her apron. And we were connected. A tug that still calls to me. 

When I need the strength of “it’s good enough for joy,” I wrap myself in my Minnesota apron, bake the bread and wash the dishes in a temperature I never imagined I could handle, and I am home. 


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A moment.

Being allowed to use the can opener was almost as freeing as learning to ride my bicycle. I went to great lengths to enjoy my five minute lunch alone in Hugo’s summer field behind our house on VanDyke Road. Perhaps it was the responsibility I displayed with my two-wheeler that gave my mother the assurance I could handle the responsibility of staying home alone. She taught me to tear off the label from the Campbell’s can of chicken noodle soup before I brought it anywhere near the burner. I poured the noodles into the pan. Then turned it on — I was only allowed to use the lowest temperature (You have more time than money she would tell me. No need to burn the house down.) I warmed it to luke, then poured it into the styrofoam thermos I had painted in stripes. I Tupperwared a stack of crackers. Filled another thermos of ice water. Put them all in my corduroy book bag that my mother had sewn for me. Placed that into the wicker basket of my bike. Kissed good-bye my dolls and stuffed animals as if going off to war. Then rode the five minute trail along Hugo’s field. Sat down in the smallest clearing just off the edge. Emptied the book bag. Made it into a tablecloth. Drank my soup. Drank my water. Relished in being my summer self. It was only a moment, but it was beautiful. 

Here in France, I learned to bake the worshiped bread. Normally I do it in the afternoon. Freeze it for our toast each morning. But once in a while, I have the desire to start the day with fresh break. That means making the special recipe before bed. Getting up early. Then finishing the kneed, the roll and the baking. Washing the dishes while it bakes. Our house becomes a boulangerie. My fingers dance on the crust, as I cut the pieces. The butter melts without urging. Even the honey and jam feel special. It is only for this breakfast. There will be additional bread, but only this one moment, eating in the waft of this happy morning. 

Some might say it wouldn’t be worth it. But then they wouldn’t have can-openered their way to magic. I guess that’s for all of us to decide. Me, I hope I will try to make the most of each moment. What else do we have? 

Here comes another, what will you choose?

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Beyond the apron.

My grandma’s basement was filled with preserves. I was too young to see all the work. We were all shooshed outside when the knives were brought out. When the pots began to boil. The sweet scent of nature’s sugar wafted through the open farmhouse windows and curled under our noses, leading us round and round the house like we were cartoon characters being led by the mystique of color and magic. It was only after the sticky aprons were washed, after the jars had cooled, after they were stacked in a row on basement shelves, that I got to touch them. All those fruitful colors. I gently ran my hand across the glassed blend of oranges and reds and yellows. I thought maybe the colors would enter through my fingertips and up my arms, directly into my heart, and all that magic beyond the apron would enter into me.

It did.

Before moving to France, I never made bread, nor jams. But I suppose that’s the beauty of magic — it is patient — there for you when you’re ready. Our fruit trees are ripening. I made my first batch of
Confiture de pêches (peach jam). The kitchen is summer warm, as Grandma Elsie scoots beneath the open windows, magically dancing, beyond my aproned heart.

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Loving.

It functioned, of course, but it took a minute for me to fall in love with our kitchen. I suppose as with any love, I had to show it what I really needed. Not just breakfast in the morning, but a welcome. A real welcome of comfort and possibility — joy in every shade of blue. So I painted it. Just like in the cartoons, I want the scent to make a hook and lure me in — so I make the bread. I want to avoid the fax machine blare of the espresso maker — so I brew the coffee, puff by liquid puff on the stove.  I, we, bring it flowers to say we know how lucky we are to be here, together, at this table. 

Certainly I learned it from my mother — if you want to be loved, be loving. From my grandma — if you want to receive, give something. And it was from my ninth grade English teacher, Mr. Rolfrud — if you want to be a part of someone’s story, you have to share yours. 

I see it more easily now, because of them. In places and people. So I’m able to fall in love with my kitchen, daily. My bathroom. My husband. Myself. My life. I step into the blue of the morning, and think, isn’t it lovely?

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Apron strings.

I suppose we were all, at some point, tied to her apron strings. And if not tied, we loosely wandered through the flowered fabric that smelled of sugar and dough — this apron draped across the welcoming belly (also filled with sugar and dough) of grandma Elsie.

Both my grandmother and mother did the kitchen dance. My grandma, mostly around us. And it was my mother who pulled me in, doing the steps backwards, so I wouldn’t have to. From farmhouse to apartment, I didn’t have the words for it then, but I suppose it was never about the floor, always about the dance. The steps each of them took, to make our lives better, my life better, I will ever be grateful. The only real way to give thanks, I guess, is to keep dancing, to keep you dancing.

I got the wink from heaven’s kitchen yesterday, when I received the five-star review on the apron. A woman purchased one of my dance aprons from a store in Florida and then went to the website to get more for her friends. Filling the dance floor. And I can’t stop smiling, twirling, because I know the connection doesn’t end, it keeps growing. Sometimes a word at a time, sometimes even an apron string.

Maybe we never know what it will be that is going to connect us — keep us connected. So we have to stay in motion. Continue reaching out. The floor will keep changing. Sometimes pulled right up from underneath us. But we are stronger than that. We keep dancing.

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From bowl to oven.

I can no longer say that I always make a test cookie. I did, until yesterday.

It still makes sense. And I will, when I can, test out the dough with one cookie before baking the whole batch. But yesterday’s recipe required a little faith, and a little Elsieing. I googled the French delicacies. There were so many variations to these crackling little almond cookies, both in French and in English, so I Elsied my best guess, and made a little combination.

One thing they all agreed upon was the speed that the dough must go from creation to oven. Containing no flour, the few ingredients, like the egg-whites and sugar, would separate if you hesitated. Having to bake for 20 minutes, there was no time for a test cookie. Having thrown myself into stronger French winds than this and survived, I plopped the wet dough onto the baking sheets and believed, or at least hoped.

We ate them nearly as fast as it took to get from bowl to oven. Delicious. I knew if they turned out that Dominique would like them, but I was surprised at how much that I did! I loved them. It turns out, faith is a tremendous ingredient!

I mention it only because when I recall my greatest pleasures, they have all been accompanied with risk. Becoming an artist. Sharing my stories. Daring the markets of New York. Falling in love, big love. Moving to France. Creating a family. None of these allowed for a test cookie — straight from bowl to oven!

Are there trips and failures along the way – of course, but they aren’t the taste that lingers — that, my friends, is nothing but sweet.

Fill your heart. Feed your soul. Taste this life.

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Sometimes lemons.

I wasn’t planning to do it all yesterday. I thought I would just start with the jam. I made the first batch in the morning, and by early afternoon the remaining apricots said, “It’s time.” 

It being a Sunday afternoon, in France, my options were limited. I only had enough sucre spécial confiture (sugar for making jam) to create another small batch. I decided that I would make a tart as well. It became clear very quickly that I was going to have to Elsie my way through this. Within each recipe there was something that I didn’t have. Almond flour. Nope. Next. Whipping cream. No. Next. And this went on and on as the stores remained closed. I finally stumbled upon one where I had almost everything but the corn starch. Google recommended Arrowroot or Psyllium husk. If my pantry didn’t contain corn starch, how likely was it to contain Psyllium husk? My inner Elsie took over. More flour here, mixed with a dash more sugar. Vanilla, why not. And some of the jam I made that morning — of course I added it atop the fresh apricots and my homemade crust. 

While the tart was in the oven, I made another batch of the apricot jam. No apricots lost, and the house smelled of sweet victory. The thing is, we don’t always get to be ready. Possibly never. Yet, life ripens before us at a blistering pace, handing us a bowl of apricots, (sometimes lemons), and we get to decide whether we’re going to make something of it, or not. 


I’ve always been a bit of a worrier. It was my Grandma Elsie who showed me how to tweak that recipe and change it from worrier to warrior. With 9 children, “open or closed on a Sunday” would have been the least of her battles. And yet she conquered them all, ever so sweetly. 


It turns out the most important ingredients in a French tart are Swedish hands and a creative heart. Bon Appétit!

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Immeasurable.

I always marveled at how she just threw things in with such confidence. Never following a recipe. She seemed like a “Kitchen Super Hero” as I stood next to her, apron high, trying to work my way up to timid, at best. 

They called me shy. I like to think that I was just taking it all in. And there was so much to take in, there in my Grandma Elsie’s kitchen. I cupped one chubby hand to her chubby knee, and I watched. 

It was a dance really. From cupboard to table to stove to table again. I kept time as best I could. Losing my face in her apron, giggling behind the flower-print pocket, the pocket that was never without a Kleenex. I couldn’t learn the cups or tablespoons, so I focused on the dance. And just like the song played, I could have done this all night.

I started baking when I came to France. The language was such a surprise, I had forgotten about the measurements. What were these liters and grams? Celsius? There was nothing left to do but dance. I Elsied my way through. Tossing and twirling. And with the help of a lot of French butter, I must admit, it’s delicious!

Someone has always made a path. Maybe not in stone or pavement, but certainly in heart and spirit. The gifts we are given, just like an Elsie recipe, are immeasurable. 

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Spinning into stove.

Rita will turn 98 on the fourth of July. I only know this because of an apron.

It was her niece who bought it for her — this apron of mine. She had been a ballroom dancer with her husband. Still dancing in her nineties. And wasn’t that the whole point of what I wrote on that apron — “and then one day you realize, every floor is actually a dance floor…” Life is something! We are pushed and pulled, sometimes knocked over, knocked flat, by the pulsing beat..but the wisest, the strongest of us all, keep dancing.

It was my mother who taught me to dance in our kitchen. Nothing stopped her. In the green house on Van Dyke Road, in her lengthy arm exuberance, she knocked the light fixture from the ceiling. It fell like a disco ball, just missing both of our heads and crashed to the floor. A broom, a paper sack, and the record kept playing. When we moved to the brown house, she turned up the stereo in the dining room, and we danced within the frame of the orange countertops until we lost the house, and began apartmenting. Each floor became smaller, but never the dance. Still she pushed her hand into mine to signal the turn, and I would – sometimes spinning into stove, sink or fridge, but the dance continued.

So it seems no accident after all that I was invited into Rita’s kitchen. Aproned and joyful, she led me onto her dance floor. Watching the video she shared, I wanted to capture everything. I knew I would paint her. Every dish in the cupboard, plaque on the wall, it all felt so important. And it is!

I finished this painting yesterday in France. This image of her in California. Beginning from the lessons I had learned in Minnesota. We are all connected by this joyful beating of hearts. This music that never ends. This rocket’s red glare!

I often use the word “she.” Today I mean Rita. I mean my mother. Myself. (And hopefully you!) When I write the words, “…and so she would dance.”

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