Recipes of the heart | Previous Challenge Entry

how it works

TITLE: Recipes of the heart | Previous Challenge Entry
By Beck Gambill
10/20/08
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The recipe box sits on the counter dusty, lid askew. Some of the recipes are written on scraps of paper, others on pretty recipe cards. Most of them are stained and dog-eared. Favorites like pecan pie, Waldorf salad and banana pudding are even more worn than the others, sticky and smudged from use. A few of the papers peek out from under the lid, shoved inside in no particular order. Many of the recipes are written in the spidery scrawl of my Maw-Maw. Others bear the handwriting of her mother, sister-in-law, dear friend Pat or friends and family unknown to me and long since forgotten.

As I thumb through the stack of tatty cards, in search of my great-grandmother’s tea cake recipe, my imagination is assaulted by a cacophony of memories. I’m a little girl on tip toe, reaching to stir the ingredients in a large bowl. The music from a Christmas movie on television, the laughter of Paw-Paw from another room, the smell of Maw-Maw’s perfume as she leans close to help me stir; all of these things gently swirl around me in loving embrace. Homemade Christmas ornaments adorn the tree; some created by my mamma some by me. Stockings lovingly crocheted by my Maw-Maw wait to be filled. Holiday traditions, some begun for my generation others created by a generation faded from memory, yet still leaving their mark. All these things speak of family, of belonging.

Bitter sweet the images come to me unbidden. Echoes from the past reverberate in my heart. As I touch the cards and read the writing I can hear Maw-Maw’s mellow voice. I hear her humming softly to herself as she cuts biscuits into perfect circles. I can hear her scolding the despised starlings from the kitchen window bird feeder. Her voice rises and falls in my memory as I recall one of her familiar stories.

My fingers find the sought for recipe. It carries the marks of time. Used by women who have preceded me as an offering of love to their families. Now it is my turn. Quietly I thank God for the heritage of my family. For each woman he has put in my past to shape and influence me, most of whom I have never met. As I begin gathering ingredients, Maggie, my young daughter, skips around the corner eager to help. I pull up a chair for her to stand on, and smile as she scampers up chatting innocently. I pray her memories are as rich and flavored with love as mine.

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