Mothers Day

At the writing workshop a week ago, I chose to write about a family recipe I copied from my mother’s index cards when I was ten. Proud of my cursive penmanship, this first recipe started my preparations for living on my own, cooking favorite dishes. Yes, at age ten I did think like that.

One card, oil and water stained with frayed edges, woke memories that found their path to the page. The words flowing from the pen provided a window through which I witnessed the passage of time in my life. A simple recipe for apple crisp stirred up aromas of cinnamon, apple, and sugar. I felt my hands mixing the butter, flour and sugar for the crisp. I remembered conversations, celebrations, simple family meals. I heard the sound of laughter.

Reading my own story aloud to the others nudged deeper feelings to the surface. At one point, tears came to my eyes. I remain fascinated by the depth of feeling and breadth of memory evoked by writing about this dessert and its place in my life. I resolved to write and share more stories triggered by the recipes in the small wooden box with a red rooster painted on the front.

Writing this post at the end of a very full Mothers Day with children and grandchildren, I appreciate the past generations of mothers in my family. I have some of their recipes. I know some of their stories. I treasure the current mothers in my family. I look forward to participating in their stories and sharing their recipes.

Although the drive home lasted longer than one minute, I spent a minute thanking the generations of mothers whose existence formed me.

Mentastics Minute:

Take one minute to appreciate the generations of mothers in your family. Ask them to tell you their story. Pass the story on to the next generation.