A few weeks ago my grandmother died. It was not unexpected.
She was 87 and had not been in good health for a very long time. Still,
expected or not, it is hard to lose a loved one. I have been thinking a lot
about her lately, remembering.
I loved going to my grandma's house. It was truly a magical
place for a young child. My grandma loved collecting things. Over the years,
her house became very crowded, but it was a treasure trove for a young girl.
You never knew what you might find when you opened a door, looked under a bed,
or pulled open a drawer. I can remember spending many hours looking through
drawers of my grandma's jewelry, trying on piece after piece and feeling very
glamorous.
Out of the multitude of things she collected, I specifically
remember spoons (purchased from every place she visited), wind chimes, roses,
and books. Her family room had shelves and shelves of books, most of them
either religious study books or cookbooks. It's the cookbooks I'd like to talk
about today.
I have never particularly enjoyed cooking. I can follow a
recipe just fine, but I don't find a lot of joy in the actual mechanics of
cooking. It's a chore that has to be done every day. However, I do like looking
at cookbooks. I love looking at the pictures, thinking about various tastes and
textures, and planning elaborate meals in my mind. I subscribe to a few
different magazines solely devoted to cooking; this despite the fact that I
rarely follow through with creating any of those meals. Lack of follow-through
has never stopped me from clipping recipe after recipe. I have often wondered
why I do this.
I inherited some of my grandma's cookbooks. I was especially
excited to be in possession of the Betty Crocker Cookie Cookbook which I loved
looking at as a kid. One day not long ago, I sat on the couch with my grandma's
cookie book for a trip down memory lane. When I opened the book, literally
hundreds of recipes clipped from magazines and newspapers fell out. I
immediately went to my cookbook shelf and pulled out all of Grandma's books.
Sure enough, every single one of them was full to bursting with clipped
recipes. What do you know? I inherited my penchant for clipping recipes from
her!
My vague sense of embarrassment over my silly little habit
has vanished. No longer do I feel guilty about buying magazines I never really
use. No longer do I feel frustrated about clipping recipes I will never
actually make. Because now every time I clip a recipe and slip it into one my
cookbooks, I remember my lovely grandmother and know a little piece of her lives
on.
