The new chill does have a tendency to put my cooking mode into over drive. All comfort foods. Beef Stew, Turkey noodle soup, cinnamon rolls, jambalaya. :) Yes, food does make me happy. But not cuz I like to eat (I do). I just remember that our kitchen was the meeting place of the house. Sure, we used the living room for scripture reading and family stuff, but if you needed to feel like you were a part of something, you went to the kitchen.
In the morning, we didnt use alarm clocks. You knew it was time to get up because you could hear Tamazine downstairs emptying the dishwasher. Then as you were getting dressed you'd smell pancakes, and maybe if you were lucky, they were blueberry pancakes, AND Chester hadn't beat you to them. I think blueberries just tasted better cuz we knew that we had picked them ourselves. Or at least ate while Mom picked. Two in the mouth, one in the bucket :)
At the end of school, we'd run home and eat a snack while Mom asked us about our day. On really rainy cold days, we'd walk up the hill from school, and you'd always know if Mom was baking cinnamon rolls by the Liefson's house, they smelled that good. We'd sprint the last 100 feet, and Mom always had the first batch coming out the second we'd walk in the door. Sometimes she'd have us go back to the Liefson's and borrow a pan or two and fill it up with some for them. They looked forward to cinnamon roll day as much as us.
Dinner was always a massive affair.
Lots of laughing and passing/tossing/sliding food. My Dad made our table. It was the largest round table your could fit in the door way. We all fit around it, with room for guests. Also, when guest came, usually family, they would all enter from the back door. In all the hugging and excited talking, sometimes we'd stay in the kitchen for hours, leaning back against the counters, just happy to be back around each other. The kitchen would be packed, the living room would be empty, and everyone would be happy. I loved those days.