I never cared for or about cooking until 4 or 5 years ago. One trip to my grandma’s house I sat at her dining room table for hours and painstakingly copied the recipes most familiar to me. Her apple crisp. Her noodles from scratch. Her meatloaf and her chocolate cake. Now that she was no longer able to cook as much as she used to, I was willing and even eager to cook on my own those things that I had, in years past, always cooked with her.
In subsequent trips I was gifted with several gifts from grandma’s kitchen that I also like to cook with: I got a casserole dish, all of her cookie cutters, the pink aluminum ice cream scoop my grandfather used daily, meaning it is perfectly “broken in,” and even the most stunning china cabinet I have ever seen which stands in my kitchen corner bringing joy and beauty to the room and puts a smile upon my face whenever I see it. More than things however I love those recipes, because it feels like I am still cooking with grandma every time I pull one of them out of the box and try to do it justice. I am so grateful just to be her granddaughter; for all of the time we spent together baking, laughing, and licking beaters, and for the way that recreating her recipes recreates time past.