This morning my Aunt forwarded a recipe from my Grandmother’s files for me. I’m excited to see if I can in any way shape or form recreate the flavors of my memory. And a little nervous that I won’t be able to measure up. My Grandmother was a baker par excellence and I treasure the legacy, but am not naturally endowed with such skill when it comes to sweets and treats fresh from the oven.
Basically, I’m more of an artist than a scientist when it comes to the kitchen, and that is how I’ve come to understand the difference between those who can bake and those who can’t. Never took a chemistry class (or Home Ec!) and get hives at the thought of such precision in terms of sifting, rising and the combination of sugars and acids.
On the flip side, my beloved raves about my salads and I can own a modicum of confidence in that arena. No heat involved, for one, so there is no burning. Not to mention that Mother Nature makes tomatoes sweet and sees to it that the cukes stay crunchy so I don’t need to measure sugar and wrestle with the agave vs. honey calculations necessary for cookies that are crisp not chewey. In salad world, I can toss in some chopped left over “whatever” and I’m good to go with a squeeze of lemon and a splash of olive oil. Et voila! Masterpiece without preparing a pan or timing a rise.
And yet, I remain humbly hopeful that there will be a raspberry surprise before the weekend is out, because the recipe of love includes more than teaspoons can measure.
Writing Prompt: Grandma’s hands…