A Day for Mohair Sweaters…

The earth a golden umber was once again seasonally exposed. Briefly. Crocus buds had made themselves prematurely known. The promise of spring thwarted as a Judas snow fell steadily this morning. A dusting quickly builds to the many inches. The scraping sound of a town plow cuts through the cold March air. The final vestige of winter? Probably not. Vermont’s fifth season…

A new week begins as I reflected on the last. Friday’s writing group still resonated with me. We meet every other Friday sometimes stretching to a third but never as long as a fourth. This past Friday we sat around my yellow pine kitchen table as we were wanting to do. Our positions now as expected as any family member’s chair.

So many meals have been shared around this sturdy table. The surface like the memories have been well preserved. The many voices and many seasons of life represented in the deepening honey ochre color.  This substantial rectangle table stretches long in my now modest kitchen. Made to order and purchased in Chiswick in the late 90’s. British friends abroad sidled up for our Thanksgiving Day celebrations while expats in Kensington. My mother snacked on cheese and crackers after chemotherapy knowing it would soon feel unwell. A decision she insisted upon and never regretted as we just sat and shared precious moments aware they soon would end. Children and teenagers gathered round frequently and always welcomed. Kenyan runners shared stories by the many. Running club friends feasted from a bounty spread from one end to the other…

Now, the gatherings are more limited but of no less import. I share the occasional morning with two women I love and respect. We are quick to converse on all things and nothing. We write, we read our carefully chosen words aloud, critique and offer direction. My voice still cracks and breaks as I read aloud. Vulnerability a challenge. The written word exposes the personal in a way painting does not. I am not comfortable in this arena, but I know they are a soft place to fall. They know something of me that I have not acknowledged even to myself. The veil is lifted in an honest way. They perceive something of me that I am still learning about. How we each have found ourselves at this table together and currently is varied but not. It is what we bring to the group each time that truly enriches…

A cook I am not but a baker I can be. I enjoy preparing baked goods for our midmorning writing group meetings. My repertoire is limited but celebrated without complaint. Muffins, coffee cake and sometimes just strong coffee are the offerings I prepare. Coffee is a must. In addition to muffins last time, I decided to prepare an apple crisp. While apple crisp was a more autumnal choice, I decided to bake some for our meeting anyway. My mother’s recipe of course …

I grabbed the small book that housed the recipe early Friday morning. An index card that had been distributed prior to my bridal shower a lifetime ago was a few pages in. A time when brides were awarded recipes and not accolades. Still, I cherish each recipe housed in cellophane sleeves in a cornucopia printed cardboard binder. I reference these recipes often and more frequently than any other cookbook except for my mother’s tried and true worn black leathery covered treasure. I don’t remember how often she referenced it as she was an exquisite natural cook but like all tangible items particular to her, I cherish looking at it as it proudly stands on my kitchen counter in between running cookbooks and Vermont inspired recipes.

The” Women’s Home Companion Cook Book” possesses a messy array of hopeful culinary perfection on aged newspaper clippings. Typed recipes. Mimeographed.  Randomly tucked in with folded edges jutting out. I could rearrange and even toss out the unwanted but why would I? Her hands once placed each piece of paper specifically on certain pages. Lasagna, popovers, tarts and mixed drinks. A solitary folded recipe more gray than white but clearly the most recent entry titled “fit to eat. Twice baked squash.” A must keep…

The “gifted recipes” have multiplied over the years. Printouts of everything from blueberry muffins to roasted broccoli fill the space between the cover and the plastic sleeves. Many if not all the original recipes were from strong women who navigated life with a dignity I so admired. Lives that were silently complicated. A stoic acceptance of the hand dealt…

A neighborly sisterhood was written in BIC blue ink as they shared their favorites with this then young bride. Family recipes. Original creations. Ingredients simple and straight forward. Adoringly I have thumbed through this smorgasbord of offerings like a novel understanding something of the woman who penned each matching index card. Sweet and / or savory written in longhand. The script artistically sharp and clean. My mom’s penmanship easily identifiable. Clean, slanted and formal. Like her, perfection.

My mother’s apple crisp recipe now shows wear, and a buttery cinnamon stained thumbprint displayed on the bottom right-hand side of the index card. I have altered it only slightly based on my family’s preferences. The raisins were the first to go and then the nutmeg but like the women who created it this recipe has stood the test of time …

“We are braver and wiser because they existed, those strong women and strong men… We are who we are because they were who they were. It’s wise to know where you come from, who called your name.” — Maya Angelou