For the first time today, I went to another homeschool co-op mom’s house and couldn’t help but be a know-it-all plant person.
“Ooh, Alyssum,” I said, sticking my nose within an inch of the teensy white flowers whose scent punches way above their weight.
When Joyce gestured at some thick green leaves and said, “I don’t think they’re tulips,” I glanced and replied, “You’re right—it’s hyacinth.” Then I did what any good plant lover (or opportunist?) would do: I pinched off two babies from her well-producing spider plant to take home and propagate.
The visit was a quick pop-in to pick up a small white cooler that held a pound of chocolate-infused cheese—yes, chocolate cheese. It had shipped from Michigan to Georgia, and Joyce had raved about its savory-sweet magic at a homeschool Easter egg hunt a few days earlier. The $20 shipping was steep, but if we split it, $10 each felt doable.
Back in her kitchen, I peeled open the foil-wrapped sweet and grabbed a two-soap-bar-sized chunk. As I was mid-bite, teeth carving their mark, she offered, “I have a knife if you’d like.”
But I’m a bit of a brute, a Neanderthal, an impulsive “me want” type when it comes to food or anything shiny I’ve set my eyes on. Plus, I was hungry.
On the drive home, I kept chomping—breaking off bites for Dave and Evelyn too. The taste reminded me of creamy fudge. Not bad. But not what I’d hoped for. It lacked the cheese factor.
And I love cheese. At any given time, you’ll find five different kinds in my fridge. Cheddar, parmesan, and mozzarella are staples. Then there’s usually a rotation—bleu, gruyère, gouda, or brie, depending on the season and my mood.
Admitting this makes me feel a little snooty. Like I’ve got a pinky in the air and a bonnet on my head, fussing around like some bougie cheese elitist. And maybe I am.
But maybe that’s what growth looks like: once upon a time in college, I tossed a raw egg to cook in my chicken Top Ramen and felt fancy. Now, twenty years later, I juggle five cheeses without letting one go moldy. I can name dozens of plants and know exactly how much water each one wants.
Maybe it’s passion. Maybe it’s an obsession. Probably a little of both.
And here’s something I rarely say out loud: I think I’m a good counselor. Not because I don’t believe it—just because sometimes I don’t feel it.
But today I did.
Today, I felt deeply glad that it was me sitting with someone, listening, guiding. Because of my experience with addiction and how trauma lives in the body, I was able to offer something useful. Something that helped this person shift from “There’s something wrong with me” to “This is how my body protected me—and here’s what I can do now.”
And that felt… effective. True. Like maybe I know a thing or two.
Even if it’s just about plants, cheese, and healing. Take care out there!
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 