A Dash of This and a Dash of That

The smells of Autumn are so intoxicating. Whether it be mulled apple cider simmering on the stove, a cooling pumpkin pie tucked away on the window sill or the crackling embers of a wood burning fireplace, these aromas envelop you in a comforting warmth, much like that special blanket, made by your grandmother just for, you as a child.

My maternal grandmother was a fantastic cook, and especially loved to bake. As a young girl, I recall sitting at her kitchen table during our visits, intently watching her transform mounds of flour and sugar, combined with eggs by the dozen, with a dash of this and a dash of that, into a colorful array of decadent cookies, cakes, pies and candy. My sweet tooth begging, for just a taste, a lick of the spoon or even better, the chance to wipe clean, with my finger, the remnants off the mixing bowls that cluttered the kitchen counter top. I would eagerly wait for the timer to buzz, hardly able to contain my delight as she removed sheets and tins from the oven, a beautiful composition of scents, transfusing the air as she arranged them strategically about the kitchen to cool and firm.

With a sparkle in her eye, she would allow me the special privilege of sampling the goodies before they were fully cooled. With a tall glass of milk setting next to me, to cleanse my palate between bites, I would devour the sticky, gooey, goodness, leaving neither a crumb, nor morsel behind on my plate. I felt so special, so loved during these Sundays of baking with my grandma. She passed away when I was just 16 years old and with her, died the recipes that were only recorded and stored in her memory alone.

Years later, my mother and I together, would reminisce about earlier days, she herself recalling the same sort of experience that she had as a girl with both her maternal grandmother and mine. A familial art form, now fragmented along the thread of our lineage. These enduring memories remain eternally intact within my sensorial consciousness, as I am easily transported back to my place at the kitchen table at grandma's house every mark of Autumns commencement, and in my own unique attempt at replicating these same ever-lasting recollections for my own children and eventually, theirs, I find that same comfort, she gave to me and wear it like a blanket warming me to my core.