On the morning of my fifth wedding anniversary last week, I sat by myself in a salon. It was a rare moment alone, without responsibility, doing something just for me. That night, I was to celebrate the occasion with my husband at dinner out – only the second time in more than two years (since our kids were born) that we’ve gone out just the two of us.

“Home is wherever with you…” played over the salon stereo. I was aware of the music around me in a way I’m not always when I am juggling children and teething rings and nursing and dirty diapers; the song’s jangly tune and sweet lyrics felt appropriate in that moment, on that day, and it made me think of the concept of home. What it means to me today, as a mother and wife and sister and daughter and woman about to turn 40.

As we move into the Fourth of July weekend, with its annual flurry of family picnics and barbecued food and watermelon and fruit desserts a la mode and sparklers and Americana celebrations, home feels at the heart of this moment, too.

Today, home for me means chaos and warmth. Laughter and tantrums. Cocktails after kids’ bedtimes. Piles of toys and clutter and a desire for streamlining. A new kid-friendly backyard. Stairs and memories and noisiness and kitchen smells. Food crumbs everywhere. And a kitchen that is being used again, gradually, after months of takeout and exhaustion from new baby life and book writing and toddler raising and day jobs. And it means pie.

My daughter and I recently collaborated for the first time on a strawberry-rhubarb pie together while the baby napped and my husband was en route home from another trip. Like that Friday morning’s pleasant aloneness, it too was unexpectedly serene. There were no crying fits, just curiosity. No tears or terrible twos resistance, just desire to “see, see” and “hold it, hold it.” Just baking, together. Me and my girl. It was delightful.

Those are the times people think of, I think, when they wax nostalgic about raising children. Togetherness, learning, quiet discovery and sharing. Transferring one’s passion to offspring. Seeing eyes light up at transformation in the kitchen. Growth and love.

The pie turned out beautifully. I did something I rarely do: used prepared crust. And for the first time, I didn’t feel guilty about it.

My daughter marveled at the pie as it baked, transforming itself before her eyes in the dimly lit oven. As I watched her, watching the pie, I caught myself in a moment. One of those moments I’ll look back on when she’s older and wants nothing to do with me. Or when our relationship is one of two mothers, she with children of her own. I’m sure each era will have its special qualities, its reasons to cherish. But I’m also sure at some point I will long for these days – at least aspects of them – and I plan to eat a slice of golden, sugar-kissed tangy pie, to time travel back and remember what home tasted like in the summer of 2015.

Strawberry-Rhubarb Pie (Adapted slightly from The Joy of Cooking; original recipe here)