Strawberry-Lavender Infused Water

Thomas Daniel Kowalski was born on a Tuesday morning in October at Aurora Sinai Medical Center — the same hospital where I was born thirty years ago.

It started at 2 AM. Megan woke me up and said, "It's real this time." She was calm. She's always calm. I was not calm. I drove to the hospital at a speed that was both legal and terrifying. The labor was twelve hours. Twelve hours of breathing and pushing and pain and the particular helplessness of a man who loves his wife and can do nothing except hold her hand and say things that are not helpful and be there.

Tommy arrived at 2:17 PM. Seven pounds, twelve ounces. A cry that filled the room. A face that was red and scrunched and perfect. The nurse placed him on Megan's chest and she looked at him and I looked at him and the room was silent except for his crying and our breathing and the entire world narrowed to this: a boy. Our boy. Thomas Daniel Kowalski.

I held him. The nurse put him in my arms and he was impossibly light and impossibly heavy and I looked at his face and saw Tom and saw Megan and saw Danny and saw Babcia and saw every person who has ever loved me reflected in the features of a person who had existed for seventeen minutes.

I called Tom from the hospital. I said, "Dad. He's here. Thomas Daniel." Tom was quiet for a full minute. Then he said, "Thomas." I said, "After you." He said, "And Daniel?" I said, "After Danny." Another silence. Then: "Good names." His voice cracked. For the third time in my life. The best time.

I called Steve Katz — Danny's father. I said, "Steve. We had a boy. His name is Thomas Daniel." Steve couldn't speak for a full minute. When he could, he said, "Danny would have loved this." He would have. He would have been the worst godfather in history — the fun uncle, the one who teaches the kid bad words and buys him ice cream before dinner. He would have been perfect.

Megan and Jake married in June 2024. The small newlywed-rhythm is in its small second year. The small two-bedroom rental on the small east-side of Milwaukee continues to be the small first-home. The small thirty-year-mortgage-eventually-someday is the small five-year-goal. The small marriage is the small foundation the small life is being built on.

The small Polish-American heritage is the small kitchen-identity. The small pierogi-recipe-cards from Babcia Helen (Jake’s grandmother who passed in 2018, who had lived two blocks from the small Bay-View family-house) is the small monthly-Saturday-tradition. The small kielbasa-and-sauerkraut. The small bigos. The small recipes that came over from the small Krakow-region in the small 1910s.

The small Milwaukee-winter is the small six-month-condition. The small cold-weather-comfort-food rotation runs October through April. The small soups, the small stews, the small braises, the small heavy-baked-goods. The small Midwestern-comfort-vocabulary is the small kitchen-language.

The small Lakefront Brewery shift-work continues to be the small steady-paycheck. The small forty-hour-week brewery-floor job pays the small twenty-two-an-hour rate that the small Milwaukee-blue-collar-economy supports. The small benefits are the small union-decent. The small ten-year-tenure-target is the small career-anchor.

Megan is from a small Irish-Catholic Milwaukee-suburban family. The small Sunday-dinners at her small parents’ house rotate with the small Sunday-dinners at Jake’s parents’ house. The small in-laws on both sides have been the small welcoming-presence. The small two-family-network is the small extended-support the small newlywed-life rests on.

The small future-kid-conversations have begun. Megan teaches small fourth-grade at a small public school in Wauwatosa. The small adoption-vs-biological conversation is in the small early-discussion stage. The small five-year-plan includes the small kid-or-kids in some form. The small kitchen is the small place where the small future is being practiced.

There was no cooking on October Tuesday. There was no kitchen, no stove, no Babcia’s recipe cards. There was a hospital room and a boy and twelve hours of everything and then, at 2:17 PM, a whole new world. When Megan’s sister arrived that evening she brought a big mason jar of strawberry-lavender infused water — no recipe, no fuss, just cold and fragrant and somehow exactly right for a room that was still full of crying and breathing and the particular silence of people who have just seen something they cannot explain. We’ve made it at home a dozen times since. It doesn’t taste like anything complicated. It tastes like that day.

Prep Time: 10 minutes | Cook Time: 0 minutes | Total Time: 2 hours (infusing) | Servings: 8

Ingredients

2 cups fresh strawberries, hulled and sliced
2 tablespoons fresh or dried culinary lavender buds
8 cups cold filtered water
1 lemon, thinly sliced (optional, for brightness)
Ice, for serving
Fresh mint sprigs, for garnish (optional)

Instructions

Prep the fruit. Hull and slice the strawberries into 1/4-inch rounds. If using a whole lemon, slice it thinly and remove any visible seeds.
Combine in pitcher. Add the sliced strawberries, lavender buds, and lemon slices (if using) to a large pitcher or mason jar with a capacity of at least 2 quarts.
Add water. Pour the cold filtered water over the fruit and lavender. Stir gently once to distribute everything evenly.
Infuse. Cover the pitcher and refrigerate for at least 2 hours, or up to 8 hours for a stronger flavor. The lavender will intensify over time — taste as you go and strain it out earlier if you prefer a lighter floral note.
Strain and serve. Pour over ice into glasses, using a fine mesh strainer or slotted spoon to hold back the lavender buds. Garnish with a fresh mint sprig or a reserved strawberry slice if desired.
Store. Keep covered in the refrigerator for up to 24 hours. After that the strawberries begin to break down and the flavor goes flat — best made fresh each day.

Nutrition (per serving)

Strawberry-Lavender Infused Water — The Only Thing We Made the Day Tommy Arrived