Don’t think for one minute that this post will detail my culinary prowess.
Not a chance.
I am amazed at people that can just “whip something up” and actually cook meals.
There are three basic categories in my recipe repertoire: Red-gravy (commonly referred to as 'sauce' for pasta and my baked ziti), Thanksgiving dinner sides (corn casserole, sausage stuffing) and Mom-Mom’s raisin bread.
I admire you Julia Child’s and Rachel Ray’s out there – you who lovingly prepare a meal and bless your family and friends with your artistry. I have eaten at your tables and applaud your gift.
I never met a home-cooked meal (or any meal for that matter) that I didn’t like. (Unless it starred olives.)
Strangely, despite my lack of culinary finesse, I have always had a fascination for RECIPES.
I collect them, ripping them out of unsuspecting magazines with a fervor that would suggest I might actually make them. But I don’t. (This syndrome calls to mind a former roommate who would studiously watch Jane Fonda workout videos while eating a bag of Fritos.)
My love for recipes began in my grandmother’s kitchen. Mom-mom was always baking something wonderful – apple pies (and giving us grandkids mini-tarts with the leftover dough) and each Christmas, her amazing raisin bread. She was a free-wheeling baker, with flour dusting the entire kitchen (and our hair and noses) by the time she was done.
The smell that wafted through the entire house was nutmeg and sugar – and the feeling it gave? Tidings of comfort and joy.
When I was a young teenager, my propensity for hoarding recipes emerged and I asked Mom-mom if I could copy all of the “go-to” creations that lived in her Dutch-wonderland-style tin.
It's been over 50 years, but when I see my tweenage handwriting and my mom's sausage filling recipe, front and center, I can't help but smile.
Inside? The Mom-mom's secrets to homemade doughnuts and meatloaf and Wheatie cookies and chicken croquettes.
Nope, never made them.
Later, I added my mom's famous recipes – ricotta cookies, biscotti, pizza dolce. (Except for her sausage filling, I’ve never attempted her specialties, either.)
But there’s something about that raisin bread.
About 20 years ago, I decided to carry on my grandmother’s tradition and send it out for all the world to eat. Well, if not the world, at least my immediate family and friends.
I’ll never forget when my mom’s sister, Aunt Joan, told me (several years into my new tradition) that the raisins should be soaked for a half hour to plump them, then lightly coated with flour so that they don’t all drop to the bottom of the loaf. Who knew?
After correcting the raisin ritual, the loaves were usually yummy, if occasionally fraught with imperfections.
Like the year the KitchenAid medallion fell off the mixer and into the dough. And I didn't even notice.
Fortunately, my sister Shirlee got THAT loaf. We shared a belly laugh and, years later, continue to let that foible tickle our funny bones.
I've learned that even if the loaf isn’t perfect, if you toast it first and slather it with butter, it can’t HELP but be good.
In truth, how can ANYTHING toasted and slathered with butter be bad?
When I first began this new tradition, I was anxious. After all, who could live up to Edna Hartsell’s amazing raisin bread?
Then I settled it: It wasn’t about how tasty the bread or perfect the loaf, but more about the love behind the gesture.
Which translates to every area of life.
I may not be the next big thing, the brightest light, or the best at many things.
But if what I do is “slathered with love” – how can it fail?
(Can you tell that “slathered” is one of my favorite words?)
As we embark on a festive season that should be filled with gratitude, connection, and happy memories made, don't let missteps or imperfections steal your joy.
If you didn't forget the love, it'll be perfect.
Don't just sprinkle, SLATHER.
It's the one ingredient you can never have too much of - and it never will fail you.
