My great-grandmother Alice (whose childhood tithing story is in this month's issue of the Friend Magazine, how exciting!) had a saying about the Sabbath:
"Every stitch you sew on Sunday, you have to pick out with your nose when you get to heaven."
I think this is a charming and memorable warning, but I don't exactly take it for gospel truth.
Sewing, baking, and crocheting are not really work for me. They're recreation. They're peace and creativity and accomplishment. They're remembering my foremothers. Even the preparation of Sunday dinner, to which I am pretty darn devoted, is more meditation and service than it is labor. If I somehow have to undo this stuff in a funny Mormon great-grandma purgatory, I think it might be worth while.
Today I am baking bread with Feminist Mormon Housewives. My puffy loaf, enriched with home-ground wheat flour and a little corn meal, is in the oven.
Later on I am going to be making cookies, and blackened salmon and red beans and rice. Maybe some greens on the side, and some corn on the cob. Later on I might even work on a crochet project I dreamed up, while catching up on the Conference sessions I should have watched yesterday, but missed because I was living in the moment with my kids (thank you, President Monson!)
Sabbath, feast day.