August always seems to leave without much of a goodbye.
One minute the days are long and the evenings are warm, and then suddenly we're standing in the kitchen on the last few nights of the month wondering how summer went by so quickly. There are still tomatoes on the counter, swimsuits hanging to dry, and more evenings that feel like summer, but somewhere in the middle of it all, September has quietly arrived.
I have a habit of trying to make ordinary things feel like occasions. I'll put flowers in a little vase even if I'm the only one who will see them. I'll light a candle while I'm cooking dinner. I'll put on music while I unload the dishwasher. Sometimes I'll even change out of the clothes I've worn all day and put on something that makes me feel a little prettier, even though we're only having dinner at home.
I've decided there is nothing wrong with this. Maybe this is what I like most about the little space between August and September. Nothing has really changed yet, but you can feel that something is about to. The last juicy peaches of summer are disappearing. The evenings are beginning to feel a little different. The calendar turns a page. We start thinking about cardigans, football, candles, and dinners that linger a little longer around the table.
For a long time, I thought we were supposed to save the beautiful things for when people came over. The nice dishes. The good napkins. The candles. The recipe that takes an hour to make.
But what if Monday is worth it? What if the people who live in our homes deserve the beautiful things too? Maybe especially them.
There is something lovely about coming home and knowing there is something warm on the stove. Not because dinner needs to be impressive, but because someone took the time to make it.
I like the quiet parts of cooking the most. Chopping vegetables while the kitchen window is open. Tasting something straight from the spoon. Hearing the oven click on. Setting two plates on the table. Pouring something cold into a glass. None of it is particularly glamorous. And yet, these are the moments I think I'll remember.
September makes me want to cook things that feel like the beginning of fall without pretending Texas has actually cooled down. Something warm, but not too warm. Something with herbs and roasted vegetables and good bread. Something that can sit in the middle of the table while we reach across each other for another helping.
Tonight, dinner is nothing extraordinary. I made lasagna with extra cheese. A candle is burning on the table, even though there is no one coming over. And that's the point. I don't want to wait for a special occasion to make our home feel special.
I want the Monday nights. The dinners that don't make it onto Instagram. The flowers from the grocery store. The recipe we make so often we don't need to look at it anymore. The music playing quietly in the kitchen. The conversation that lasts longer than dinner. I think a home is built out of these little things. Not perfection. Not expensive furniture or a spotless kitchen. Just evidence that someone lives here and cares about the people inside it.
So as August slips away and September takes its place, I'll light the candle. I'll put the flowers on the table. I'll make the leftovers look a little prettier on a real plate. And we'll sit down for dinner. It's only Monday.
But maybe Monday is enough.