Turns Out, It Does.

The knife makes a nice sound as it goes through the frosting to the bottom and then up the side of the bowl.  A kind of muted Click and Swoop as I scoop some out to dollop onto my Orange Cookies.  It's repetitive and relaxing and I'm calm in the quiet kitchen, working alone, after the kids have gone to bed. Frosting and setting aside each cookie, wondering if the icing sets or not.  I can't remember.  The fleeting urge to call my mother to check flares up a stinging behind my eyes and then vanishes.

The recipe was my great-grandmother's and as far back as I can remember, we had these orange cookies around the holidays.  The recipe card came from one of the two boxes that I brought back from my father's house, when we cleaned it out.  One box was full of my mother's recipes and the other box belonged to my grandmother.  The recipe for the orange cookies was in my mother's handwriting and for whatever reason, it still strikes me as crazy that these things survive, even when she does not.  There it is, though.  Her writing.  As familiar to me as the sight of her making some of the recipes that are now in my possession.

This year I have both boxes of recipes and I've decided to bake the cookies of my growing up years.  I rooted around in my gram's recipes and found the recipe for the Magic Cookie Bars that she made.  I layered the ingredients for her specific recipe and I thought about her.  I thought about how many times she'd used the stained, faded card.  How many times she'd done exactly as I did.  How things always change and nothing stays the same and how, as I'm baking now, off the exact card she used--we are still connected.  Through the years, through the baking, through the ether.

In my experience, it is the women of a family who weave the tapestry of memory and history.  It is the lineage of the women in my family who are the carriers of the knowledge of nurturing.  My great-grandmother died the year I got married when she was 95.  A few years after that, my grandmother developed dementia.  A few years after that, my mother died.  While my grandmother was still alive, she could no longer follow a simple recipe.  She died a couple years after my mother.  For so many years I had so many people to call for advice.  Women whose job it was to know and remember.  Women who crocheted the blankets and fixed the broken angel's wings and baked the cookies.  Women who knew if the damned icing sets or not.

They're all gone.  In a few short years, I lost them all.

Now, the women of my line start with me.  It's a big responsibility, in a way.  A little scary and a little lonely and more than a little sad, especially around the holidays.  The Sister and I are forging ahead, making new traditions for our children.  I'm doing my best to document what's happening now, in case my kids don't think to ask questions about themselves, about their childhoods until it's too late.

About the icing--there's no one to call. 

So, I'll just have to wait and see if it sets. 

 

 

Comments

[Julie]

Beautiful. Speechless.

[Manic Mommy]

Thanks for reminding me why I blog. That was lovely.

[Marie Green]

Beautiful. Heart-breaking. Lovely all the way around.

Also? Now I'm craving an orange cookie. And I've never even had one.

[The Domestic Goddess]

Sigh. Lovely. Just like you.

[Swistle]

I have something in my eye. And my other eye.

[Issa]

I love this. It's odd how you spend so long looking for advice in others and then come to the place, where it's now on you. Scary in a way. Somehow though, we find answers. Sometimes through nice people on Twitter. Best friends. Other moms.

I hope the cookies turned out well. Am going to try them.

[tara]

So well said and so heart felt. My eyes sting reading this but they also twinkle at the thought of you as the weaver and the keeper and the nurturer.

Also, this reminds me: I really ought to learn how to make the lefse while I still have have someone to teach me.

[Melba]

What a touching post. Really beautiful and heartbreaking and lovely all at the same time.

[Ruth]

Thank you for sharing! On a practical note, even if the icing doesn't set I'm sure it will still be tasty and comforting. That's the purpose of cookies, right?

[a]

I've tried to write down my mom's recipes but most of them include "add X until it smells right" which is kind of difficult to write down. I also asked my aunt to come over and show me how to make my grandma's chicken soup and noodles. I'm trying to get these things down so I can pass them on to my daughter...

[Lisa C in Georgia]

I think I miss your writing most just after I read a new post :) No pressure tho, I know you have more important priorities . . . I remain a devoted fan :)

[lora]

Hey there.
I was thinking of you yesterday when I was making cookies, so it's funny that this is your post. I was thinking that although my mother is still alive, none of my grandmothers are and I don't have any aunts on my dad's side so I'm it. And if my mom was gone I'd really be it because there aren't any other girls in the family except for my 2 year old niece.

It's an awful lot of pressure, especially when people keep giving you the things that used to belong to the women who shaped the woman you are.

Maybe pressure is the wrong word. Responsibility is more like it.

A weighty responsibility.

[Forgotten]

Thank you. I needed a reminder that the traditions I struggle to foster now for my tiny children will be appreciated as they grow. I'll continue to carry my traditons forward so that when the day comes and I'm no longer here, they will remember me with such fondness and have a history to cling to when they want to call me forward in their minds.

You are such a beautiful writer.

[Erica]

This made me cry. And want to hug you.

[Shelley]

My mom died when I was 13 in a car accident. I'm 31 and still have hand written recipes I make of hers. It's comforting to know it's documented. The taste of the food brings back memories which is nice because there are so many other things I've forgotten. Glad you have your recipes too.

[J from Ireland]

Oh that is so heart wrenching, my heart aches for you hon. Best wishes to you and thank you for sharing. I miss your writing, its great to read your words regardless to how sad they are today.

[Nil zed]

It is time to bake my great grandmothers date bars.

When I married my mom gave me a book with recipes for dihes and sweets I loved. Over the years I added a fee more,scrawling them in weird shorthand while she explained over the phone.

[abbeyviolet]

That is so hard. My dad died recently so only just staring to appreciate your pain, but little things like this seem to be a BIG part of it.

[Rebecca]

So sad and so lovely. Thanks for sharing.

[Lori]

Wow, holy shit. I am stuck between, oh man, my heart hurts, and oh man, what an amazing, kick-ass writer you are. Holidays are sprinkled with such sadness when not everyone is there. I think it is the big happiness of the holidays that makes the sadness so much more so. Sending love t.