I can no longer feel your arms embrace me, in joy or in sorrow. I can't ask you to hold my hand as I sit fearful in the waiting room while Sydney has surgery, I can't lean on you as we struggle through hard financial times or benefit from the wisdom of your experience. I can't stand next to you in church and hear your beautiful voice as you sing Amazing Grace or any of your other favorite hymns. It's been sixteen years since you left us, sixteen years of our family growing and going on without your physical presence. We have missed you, we continue to do so, but you taught us to carry on, to struggle through the dark to find the light, you left a legacy in what you taught us, and you left your warmth in a little, flowered, metal box.
Thank you for all the recipes. I know your love of cooking, I know your love of creating in the kitchen. I remember you there from very early on, creating, the smells, the wonders that would come out of the kitchen, no matter where we lived, you had your Kitchenaide, your Cuisinart, and so many cookbooks, but most of all, you had your little box. I've fought with Nic over your box, I've taken it and kept it, Nic has built his library of cookbooks and his culinary knowledge, I have explored your box through the years. Every Thanksgiving, your love is on the table and surrounding me as I prepare Oyster Stuffing, lately I have prepared my own cranberry sauce, using the basics from your favorite Cranberries Hubert, I've prepared the pumpkin pie recipe you used every year, I've not yet attempted Grandma's Tarts, but then I never really cared for them anyway. I've made coffee cake using the Kitchen Dough, your cornbread is a hit with everyone I've baked it for, I've prepared Lime Green Jello Salad so many times I can recite it from memory. All these things, warm my heart, and take my mind back to a time when you were here, standing in a caftan in the kitchen, preparing these meals for us. I remember with fondness each year watching JFK with you and chopping the oysters, well anyone who knew your twisted humor knows the connection you made between the two. This morning you warmed both my heart and my belly when I made your buttermilk pancakes, I'm sure that a butter milk pancake recipe is pretty standard, but this one is different. It's in your hand, it's on the back of one of your little note papers that used to be in the Coca-Cola tin. I had to cut it in half to adjust for my family's appetite, but when I bit into it, I savored the memory as well as the flavor.
I am thankful that you wrote so many of these favorites down, and that I have your special box to go through time and again. I wish you had written down the recipe for Spanish Rice, I can't seem to find just the right combination anywhere, and besides, no one seems to sell "Grandma's peppers" anyway. I miss you daily, I envy those who have their mothers for so much longer and when I hear someone complaining, I think of how fortunate they are to have her to complain about.
The baker, the cook, their recipes are their legacy, living long after they are gone. The love that went into the preparation of family favorites is felt each time we prepare the sweet and savory goodies, it's a way to mourn, to remember, to reconnect.
Be thankful, praise God through darkness and light.
