​As Mr. Rogers liked to say, today was a beautiful day in the neighborhood.
 
Here in our sweet little beach town, the sun was shining (but not too hot) and a breeze was blowing (but not too windy).  It would have been the perfect time to grab a cup of coffee at the café adjacent to our pier; take a hike along the ocean bluffs just north of us, or even head to the library for some reading.    
 
I washed my kitchen floor. 
 
Maybe that’s because this particular routine often ends up being quiet and mindful.
 
It begins like this: the trash and recycle wastebaskets are taken out and emptied from their custom drawer.  Next, before returning the bins to their place, I clean the inside, and then the baskets themselves, all with warm lemony detergent and a dash of bleach.  Everything is then dried with a clean dish towel, and the trash container gets a fresh white liner.  
 
Next up are the speckled linoleum tiles.
 
The starting step is a thorough sweeping, which involves a whisk broom for tricky corners, and a regular sized broom for the rest of the room.  I’ll then get one of my used-expressly-for-this-purpose, old toothbrushes to retrieve the infinite dust balls and dog hairs that multiply underneath the stove, refrigerator and dishwasher.  Then, sweeping again.
 
Now comes the main event.
 
With a bucket of new lemony suds at my side, I get down on my hands and knees and scrub every square inch of floor, as well as the baseboards.  Depending on the level of grime, I’ll change the bucket three or four times.  Finally, for the piece de la resistance, I retrieve a trusty Swifter mop for one last polish.  
 
The whole routine takes a little more than an hour, and it’s done twice a month.
 
It might surprise you to know that I’ve never, ever, felt like I’ve wasted my time.    
 
Indeed, after the floor is shiny and somewhat new looking, smelling so clean with a hint of bleach, my barefoot feet
do a celebratory happy dance around the kitchen.   If my toes could sing, they’d be warbling a very happy tune right about now. 
 
I can’t really explain why the whole experience makes me feel so good, except that there’s something about keeping my house spic and span that also, somehow, feeds my soul. 
 
In an odd way, it’s a meditative experience.  Too, it doesn’t hurt that after the cleaning is done, there’s a real sense of purpose and accomplishment, much more so than a stroll on the beach could ever accomplish.   
 
As it turns out, I’m not alone in this thinking. 
 
Indeed, there’s an ancient deity supporting me all the way.
 
The Greeks called her Hestia, and 3,000 years ago, she was the virgin goddess of the hearth, as well as guardian of family life and the temple. 
 
As a way of worshipping her, women of that day turned to Hestia for inspiration, transforming their dwellings into homes of beauty and comfort.  And even though Zeus—the King of all of the Gods—allowed Hestia to sit in of the center of his celestial home so that she might receive the best gifts from common mortals, she never had a human form. 
 
Rather, her presence was an eternal flame burning on a round hearth.  If we choose to seek some sort of spiritual encounter with her today, we might open ourselves to Hestia’s calm, orderly and peaceful presence, especially when presented with mundane tasks that involve our homes.       
 
As a matter of fact, if Hestia could have a BFF right now, she would probably be Cheryl Mendelson, author of
Home Comforts: The Art and Science of Keeping House.  An instant classic when it was first published in 1999,
this encyclopedic tome (there are more than 800 pages) remains the go-to book that tells you everything--really everything—about housekeeping. 
 
It’s in here that you’ll find not just a chapter on cleaning kitchen appliances, but a glossary of sanitizers and disinfectants.  There are many illustrations demonstrating the correct way to fold tablecloths and socks (there are three methods), as well as a template on proper clothesline hanging.  Basic home sewing, which includes a comprehensive list of what goes into a sewing basket, gets space, too, and of course, the proper care and maintenance of floors, including stone, cord and wood. 
 
Mendelson is absolutely on to something. 
 
Because while cleaning my home makes me feel good, it turns out that living in a clean home is pretty darn good for
​me, too.  
 
There are the obvious reasons, of course.
 
Regular cleaning greatly reduces the presence of dust and other allergens, which can help those with allergies and respiratory problems literally breathe easier.  Sanitizing surfaces prevents bacteria from growing, and simply tidying up and organizing a bit ensures the chance of less injuries.  And let’s not forget that sweeping, mopping and vacuuming all
burn calories.
 
But consistent housecleaning is also good for one’s heart and soul—and there’s compelling research to back that up.
 
A detailed, 2013 study at the University of Indiana seems to offer proof.  Here, nearly 1000 African Americans between the ages of 49 and 65—a group with a high risk for heart disease—were tracked to compare their levels of physical activity with how clean their homes were. 
 
The scientists’ conclusion?  Those with the tidiest homes were also the healthiest and most active.  Furthermore, the study suggested that encouraging folks to maintain their home’s cleanliness might be more important than encouraging them to walk around their neighborhood on a regular basis. 
 
And while the findings were a surprise to those who led the research, a Time magazine article goes on to say that they shouldn’t have been.   The story then quotes Florence Nightingale, the pioneer of modern nursing, who once said, “The connection between health and the dwelling of the population is one of the most important that exists.” 
 
Then again, there’s that one room in my home that I don’t clean, or even venture into much.    
 
That would be The Bedroom of The Teenage Daughter.  
 
Clean and dirty clothes are intertwined and strewn on every available surface. The wastebasket is full to the brim (we once found a very jolly field mouse there), and let’s not talk about the piece of furniture littered with paper that might be a desk.  
 
Still, I am confident that one day—hopefully, sooner than later—my child will make one of my many wishes for her come true. 
 
With age and maturity, she will become more aware of how important it is—for both her mental and physical health—to live in a clean and uncluttered environment.  One day, she will realize that not only is this the best way to live, it’s also the happier way to live.    
 
Flinging her arms wide open, she will welcome Hestia to her hearth.
 
What are your thoughts about keeping house?  I look forward to hearing from you!       
 

Not long ago, I wrote about my devotion to the grilled cheese sandwich. 
 
The set-up went like this: take two slices of fresh white bread, preferably from a bakery, and slather good butter on one side of each slice. Next—don’t hold back here either—layer Velveeta onto the non-buttered sides, then grill to a butterscotch hue. Serve with bread and butter pickles on the side with a tall glass of chocolate milk.  It’s the ultimate comfort food.   
 
I purposefully left out another contender. 
 
Maybe that’s because I knew this particular entrée needed its own post.  Yup, it’s that good.  I also suspect that just as many people—probably more, since there are various versions of this treat around the world—love this dish as much as I do.   And because it’s such hearty fare, it’s especially satisfying right now with the rainy days we’re finally getting here in California.  
 
I’m talking chicken pot pie.
 
It turns out that this old American standby has a long and interesting history, dating back to the Roman Empire.  Back then, meat pies were served at banquets, sometimes with live birds under the crust.  Colonists here loved them stuffed with robins.  Pre-Raman, they were a staple for poor college students and struggling actors.  Indeed, in the last century, gleaming automats like Horn & Hardart sold individually sized pies to thousands of hungry lunch and dinner customers every single day.        
 
My first inkling that this one-dish meal even existed came in sixth grade. 
 
I remember asking my mother one afternoon what we were having for dinner, and the answer was chicken pot pie. They had probably been on sale at the supermarket, and it was likely a few days before payday.  I figured out that last fact years later, when I realized that we never ate the upscale version.  Back then, pies in my parents’ budget went for less than 50 cents each.
 
I couldn’t wrap my 11-year-old brain around the meal.
 
After all, pies meant dessert, filled with cherries or berries or something like pudding. I hadn’t learned the word savory yet, and to top off a meat and veggie combo with a flaky crust seemed completely off kilter.  Wouldn’t the two tastes collide?  How could such a combination possibly work?   
 
Then I took my first forkful, and I was hooked. 
 
You’ve probably guessed that I’ve collected several cookbook variations, and have also probably guessed that I’ve tried most of them.  
 
My favorite is deceptively simple, because except for a little celery, one small onion and a suggestion of parsley, there aren’t any vegetables.  
 
The recipe is in a 1940s booklet extolling Spry, a competitor of Crisco whose make-believe advertising character was Aunt Jenny, a grandmotherly type with bright white hair, thin- rimmed glasses and baking apron.  (Since we don’t hear about this shortening anymore, we know who won that game.)  Its ingredients list starts with a four-pound roaster, which after steaming in a pot of gently boiling water for two hours, creates a super-rich stock for the cream gravy.  Because I’m going to go to this much trouble, homemade crust is a must.  Mine is made with flour, salt, Crisco and milk, but in a pinch, frozen puff pastry works almost as well.
 
But thankfully, given that most of us no longer have the luxury of puttering in our kitchens for hours, we can always buy a grocery store pie.    
 
Somehow, it’s not surprising that the venerable Good Housekeeping magazine took the time to rate eight ready-made, freezer to oven (or microwave) pot pies a few years back.  Thanks to its buttery crust, the magazine’s test kitchen declared Stouffer’s white meat pie tops, and concluded that Trader Joe’s, with its stringy chicken, was the worst.  In between was the cost-efficient Banquet, which is what I grew up on.  (The entire article is here, at www.goodhousekeeping.com/food-products/chicken-pot-pie-reviews/.)
 
But the absolute best store pie wasn’t even in the mix. 
 
That’s probably because it isn’t sold in New York City, where the magazine is based, and even more sadly for me, isn’t available on the West Coast. 
 
But if you’re fortunate enough to live east of Wisconsin, you can delight in a Mrs. Budd’s pot pie.  
 
Originally started in a small take-out chicken store in Manchester, New Hampshire, the pies made their debut there in the 1950s.  It was then that the Budd Poultry store had to come up with a way to use its unsold cooked chicken, and Irving Budd decided to try his mother’s chicken pot pie recipe. Today, still in Manchester, the pies can be found in most grocery chains along the East Coast, as well as Chicago.  (More details about these wonderful pies are here, at www.mrsbudds.com.)
 
Restaurants offer the most expensive way to get a pot pie fix.     
 
I’ve fond memories of Phillips Chicken Pies, an old school, red booth kind of place in my hometown.  Its signature pie was nearly identical to the Spry recipe, but sadly, the place closed decades ago.  DuPar’s, a Los Angeles based coffee shop chain that has been around for more than 75 years, has a very good pie, too, although the portion isn’t nearly big enough to my liking. 
 
In Manhattan, a dear friend and I would occasionally eat pot pie at Ye Olde Waverly Inn in the Village.  Now, however, it’s called Waverly Inn and boasts celebrity patrons including Calvin Klein, Jennifer Aniston and Hilary Duff.  It also charges $26 for one small pie.  On the opposite spectrum is Kentucky Fried Chicken, which comes out with a new version every few years.  Given that the crust is consistently greasy and there’s not much chicken, meh is the defining word here.  But since hope springs eternal, I’m game every single time.  
 
I think it’s pretty obvious how much I adore chicken pot pie.
 
With so many choices out there, I suspect lots and lots of other folks do, too.  It’s as American as corn on the cob, and as a matter of fact, I think it should replace, or at least sit next to, another great pie that our country is known for.  Yup, put a chicken pot pie next to an apple pie. 
 
Which would you eat first?   You already know my answer.
 
How about you?  What’s your favorite go-to, one dish meal, especially in the wintertime?
 
(PS.  My original post on the grilled cheese sandwich, and other comfort food, is at hilaryrobertsgrant.weebly.com/blog/ode-to-the-grilled-cheese-sandwich.)