At our latest church potluck, I stumbled upon a goldmine.

(The way I write about church potlucks, you probably think that’s all our church does. And it is.)

(Kidding! We do other things, too. But we do like to eat. During the summer we meet at a park. The kids get to play and the grown-ups talk and supper clean-up is a snap. Yay for potlucks.)

Back to the goldmine. Seriously, that’s what it was. It was gold (colored) and I got the recipe and made it myself (the “mine” part). Bonus, unlike a real goldmine, this one is affordable.

It’s a curry potato salad and the first time it touched my lips, I swooned. Actually, there was an abundance of swooning going on—everyone at our table was eating it and swooning, or so it seemed. (One might say they were “sweaning,” which is swooning combined with eating, see?) My husband even went back for seconds and then had the audacity to refuse me a bite. So I stole his Triscuits.

The salad is a cinch to make. It’s mostly just potatoes with mayonnaise and a scary-huge amount of curry, plus eggs, cilantro, onion, and vinegar. I’ve eaten it for lunch, two days in a row. And the kids, never huge potato salad fans, eat this one without fuss. Sometimes they even take seconds.

Curry Potato Salad
Adapted from Martha Stewart’s recipe.

3 pounds new potatoes
2 tablespoons white wine vinegar
½ cup mayonnaise (plus more, probably)
3 tablespoons curry powder
1 medium onion, thinly sliced and then chopped
2 teaspoons salt
1/4 cup cilantro, chopped
5-6 hard-boiled eggs, peeled and cut into wedges

Boil the potatoes until fork tender. Cut into wedges while still warm and sprinkle with 1 teaspoon salt and the vinegar. (There is no need to peel the potatoes, though if that’s your preference, peel away.)

In a small bowl, mix together the mayonnaise, curry powder, and remaining teaspoon of salt.

Add the onion, cilantro, eggs, and mayonnaise mixture to the potatoes and toss to combine. (I found I needed a good bit more of the mayonnaise than called for.) Taste to correct seasonings.

This same time, years previous: half-mast, a free-wheeling education, and braised cabbage.

This same time, years previous: Saturday nights, a tale of two children, statements, in my kitchen, how to beat the heat, shrimp with coconut milk, picklehead, zucchini parmesan frittata, the sex talk, and salvation’s chocolate chip cookies.      

As a rule, summer is our active season. Come September, our schedule loosens and lightens—not necessarily because we’re doing homeschool stuff, but because everyone else is in school. No longer is there the option of day-time swimming lessons, week-long camps, or play-date marathons. Come autumn, there is a cultural moratorium on daytime activities—at least for children—and life slows. So with an end in sight, I do my best to embrace the summertime crazies. Usually I succeed.

Except I’m noticing a shift. My children’s activities, particularly for the older two, are getting more involved. They are becoming invested in out-of-the-home stuff. And rightly, wonderfully, so. But it means my role is evolving from Director of Daily Life Together to Facilitator of Individual Interests. In other words, we’re splitting up. We’re moving in different directions.

And it’s busy.

I’ve always claimed busyness is a shallow invention created to mask our inadequacies and boost our self-worth. Because if we’re busy, we wrongly reason, then we must be valuable.

Life has seasons, sure. Some buzz with activity. Others, less so. But a consistently frenetic lifestyle is self-cultivated. It’s our responsibility to set the pace.

This is what I say. This is what I believe.

And yet, these days, more often than not, I am feeling like I have less control over our Busy.

It used to be that I spent my days orbiting the kitchen table, giving orders, doling out food, cleaning up. Life was chaotic and full, but not calendar-schedule busy. Our days were free. They were mine for the dictating and structuring.

Now, I am no longer chained to the table. With the kids’ increased independence, my husband and I can go on runs without fear (for the most part) of them clubbing each other to bits. Because the children do tremendous quantities of housework, sleep in, and entertain themselves for hours on end with Legos and dystopian novels, I have more time to devote to writing, my own out-of-the-home projects, and whatever else strikes my fancy.

Except, I’m not the only one with projects and interests—the kids have them, too.

And herein lies the rub.

We can’t all be going six different directions all the time. Physically, it’s not possible. We are a one-van, one-income family living in the country. And emotionally, well, emotionally it’d be crazy stressful. We have to pace ourselves.

Except . . . I don’t know . . . we didn’t exactly pace ourselves starting out. It was more like a pell-mell sprint into parenthood—four children in six years. The way we set this gig up, change isn’t incremental. It’s all or nothing, baby (insert crazy lady cackle).

It used to be when the kids were little, I fled the house, gasping for breath. Now it’s the children’s turn to fly and I’m left standing by the fridge, staring at the full calendar magnetted to its side, pencil in hand, trying to catch my breath.

Time flies.
Babies fly.
Breathe.

This same time, years previous: roasted beet salad with cumin and mint, bacon-wrapped breadsticks, what’s it worth?, popcorn with coconut oil, and cooked oatmeal.