My Granddaddy wasn't much of a cook.
Whenever we took a vacation to visit him and Grandmother in their little post-war bungalow, he always fixed his chili.
He served it over spaghetti which was the only way I had ever seen chili served... until I married into the Ford family and discovered the gloriousness that is chili over Fritos.
We joked that it was basically spaghetti sauce with a bit of spice mixed in.
He would pull the noodles straight from their boiling pot, so when we were handed our bowl it had a ring of water separating the chili from the edges of the porcelain.
It wasn't phenomenal eating by any means.
But it was his thing.
And it was reliable.
And it was comforting.
I miss him and his chili.
I hope that one day when I'm gone, my children and grandchildren will remember my "things." The parts of me that were reliable and comforting. The things that might not have ever earned me awards or recognition outside the four walls of our home, but connected us together like invisible strings.
What is your thing?
Maybe you are always on time. Maybe you are the one that brings a pie to family get-togethers. Maybe you are a great listener. Maybe you always have gum and kleenex in your purse.
I just want to tell you that those things matter. Keep doing them.