Every year the holidays signal the start of cookie baking season, and with it a rush of memories. Nothing says the holidays for me like the kitchen counter dusted with sugar, and flour on the floor. And nothing reminds me more of my mother than baking.
According to a handwritten note in my mother’s cookbook, I’ve been baking, or at least helping bake, since I was three years old. Of course I wasn’t actually baking cookies on my own, but she said “When 3 yrs old Margaret used the spretzy butter cookie recipe and instead of using the machine – rolled the dough into balls, flattened with fork, sprinkled with sugar & baked (like peanut butter cookies).” I was the star of the story, but really I could only do that with her guidance. She must’ve measured and mixed the dough together and handled everything related to the oven. My mother always talked about me in a way that made it sound like I could do the impossible.
When I first discovered her little note a wave of loss rushed through me and I wanted to keep re-reading it all afternoon. Somehow my mother baked herself into everything she wrote. I can hear her voice and feel her playful nature in the tone of everything. Eventually I recognized how silly it was, which is what made it a perfect echo of her. It amazes me every time I come across something that she wrote, whether it’s a journal entry, a letter, her old short stories, or little notes in the cookbook, it always reads exactly like something she’d say.
When she was at her best she embellished, exaggerated, and joked like reality didn’t matter. At her best she really could be described as sugar and spice, a little sarcasm in the sunshine. But of course mixed in with the sweet there were the inevitable blues, her depression and everything dark she tried to keep from me when she’d sleep through the day under her afghan. I always knew she was having a dark day, a quiet day, when she’d disappear under that blue blanket on the couch, no matter if it was 80 or 20 degrees outside.
With the beautiful flash-bulb memories of baking I’m haunted by the whispers of those other memories. As I miss her, and battle my own “winter blues,” I’m reminded of all the things that made her sweet, the messes she made, and find myself falling back on her fundamental baking lessons. She taught me to measure consistently with whatever method I choose, sprinkle in a little extra sugar or vanilla without worrying, and always try to clean up as I go so I’m not overwhelmed by a mess.
When I’m feeling swallowed up by memories I do my best to remember those simple ideas, they’ve become the key ingredients to my life. I try to be consistent and diligent in whatever I pursue, and do my best to add a little extra sweetness to any situation. And possibly the most important of all, I keep doing the dirty work. I keep cleaning up my messes as I go, those mental and emotional messes that are easy to ignore, so that bit by bit I can work through the things trying to overwhelm me.
Margaret Breaks 