From the Kitchen with Love

So recently I had a little chat with my grandmother in which I expressed my interest in getting a certain recipe from her that I have fond memories of us making together when I was a child. Just a bit of backstory on my relationship with her: she's pretty much my favorite person in the whole world and I've rather consistently called her every Sunday for at least the past fifteen years. That being said, our conversations often turn to food, which in my family is how we show love and also how we judge each other.

She'll tell me what she's making for Sunday dinner and then she'll ask me what I'm making. It is understood that cooking a proper Sunday meal is one of the most important things you can do as a wife and mother. An acceptable response is one that contains mention of a balanced meal that includes meat, carbohydrate, and a green vegetable. An unacceptable response, is pretty much anything other than that and should definitely never be pizza. Note: hotdogs, hamburgers, and other grilled meats are an appropriate dinner on certain holiday weekends throughout the year when paired with sensible side dishes.

Overall though, love is cooking and eating good food. A meal that is prepared with love always tastes better no matter what it lacks in flavor. When you think of all of the kind gestures you can give to someone in need, you often think of food first: feeding the homeless, taking a meal to a new mom so she doesn't have to cook, delivering a meal to the sick or elderly, baking someone a cake to celebrate a special event. The last of these "baking" has always been my grandmother's forte. Without a doubt, her cakes and pies are absolute heaven in your mouth and there's no disputing it.

However, the recipe in question has always been a point of contention in my family. You see, the story I received from my mom about said recipe made it sound like one that should never be attempted again. In fact, my grandmother herself relayed a similar message to me when I asked her for the recipe and expressed complete surprise at the mere suggestion that she give me the recipe. So, what is this horrible, awful, disgusting thing that she made that should never be made again, you ask? BISCUITS!! Biscuits that to apparently everyone but me were hard enough to be hockey pucks, were definitely not for human consumption, and not likely to be eaten by the dog either.

I'm well aware that these little additions to a meal are insignificant to most and can be bought rather cheaply in several different sections of the grocery store. But, there was something magical about waking up early in the morning with her, sifting flour, mixing ingredients, rolling out dough, cutting each and every perfectly round piece, smelling them baking in the oven, taking them out when they were done, and slathering them with butter to eat while they were still hot.

It is completely possible that my adult brain has added an element of fantasy or fiction to a childhood memory in an effort to preserve that time with my grandmother as special. If that's true, that's fine. And if it's true, I still want that recipe because it may mean that making those hockey pucks in the kitchen with my children causes them to have a similar fond memory of our time together mixing and making things with love.