celebration days 291When I’m cooking, I find myself inhabiting the emotional companion-
ship of the person who taught me how to make a particular dish, or with
whom I used to cook it. Slamming a door on food- rich holidays, declaring
food an enemy, sends all the grandparents and great aunts to a lonely
place. I have been so relieved lately to welcome them back: my tiny great-
aunt Lena who served huge, elaborate meals at her table but would never
sit down there with us herself, insisting on eating alone in the kitchen in-
stead. My grandmother Kingsolver, who started every meal plan with des-
sert. My other grandmother, who made perfect rolls and gravy. My Henry
grandfather, who used a cool attic room to cure the dark hams and fra-
grant cloth- wrapped sausages he made from his own hogs. My father, who
first took me mushroom hunting and taught me to love wild asparagus.
My mother, whose special way of beating eggs makes them fly in an el-
lipse in the bowl.
Here I stand in the consecrated presence of all they have wished for
me, and cooked for me. Right here, canning tomatoes with Camille, mak-
ing egg bread with Lily. Come back, I find myself begging every memory.
Come back for a potholder hug.