Recipes for the Road
In my early days of independent culinary experiments, I asked my grandmother for her biscuit recipe. She told me to put some self-rising flour in a bowl and cut in an egg-sized lump of lard. By the time she got to how much milk to add to the mixture I knew I would never be able to replicate her biscuits. At the time I chuckled to myself at how imprecise her explanation was. Now I fully empathize with her. When my own children call and ask for my mashed potatoes or strawberry syrup recipe, I can only respond as Granny did: here are the ingredients, just throw them together and add whatever you need until you make it taste right. I can both see how unhelpful this is and feel that it’s the only honest answer to the question.
Still, I am making some effort these days to quantify. I am measuring that which I do not typically measure and making more generous use of teaspoons than is my custom. I am trying to systematize for my children so much of what I do by feel. It is not work that comes naturally to me but I am starting to see the fruits of my labors. I am amassing a little collection of recipes in a shared folder so they can recreate the dishes they grew up with in their own kitchens.
When my oldest went to college I printed half a dozen or so recipes and slid into a red folder for him to pack with his sheets and silverware. I guess I was most afraid for his ability to feed himself because I didn’t even do that much for any of the successive graduates. I sent them out into the world to decode the grocery shelves on their own. I suppose this recipe project of mine is an attempt to correct that.
I know, too, that it is more than that. A few weeks ago E hosted her school’s volleyball teams for afternoon practice in our yard. I made several batches of popcorn and cookies for them to munch on between sets. E insisted that was unnecessary. I tried to explain to her that I didn’t do it because it was necessary. I keenly feel the dwindling opportunities I have to show my love for her in the form of warm meals. I answered her protests with a plea, “Just let me feed you and your friends while I still have you here.” In the end she relented.
That is really what’s at the heart of this drive to type up my recipes. I no longer get to make most of my children their favorite meal when I know they’ve had a hard day. I can’t answer their disappointments with a slice of fresh bread. I can’t show them that they are seen by remembering to serve the bacon on the side. I am not there for most of their ups and downs but maybe I can give them the chance to make something that tastes like home when they need it.
Which is not to say that there is anything definitive about these recipes of mine. My children will certainly change them over time, just as I have changed my mother’s. They will adapt them to their own tastes or those of their eventual families. They may not have access to all the ingredients I do. Substitutions will inevitability be made. That is only as it should be. I’m not writing these recipes in order to codify them. There is no should energy here. These recipes are only the start of a conversation between the kitchen in which they were raised and the ones they are creating for themselves.
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