A childhood memory took me on a surprising journey this morning …
It sits in the center of the table, surrounded by sprinklings of flour, sugar, nuts, and cocoa. A thin coating of flour dusts its top. The mustard-yellow lid is closed, a one-sided game of peek-a-boo with the faded, timeworn cards nestled inside. One of these cards lays to the right. I see the wrinkled, vanilla-colored edges, the greasy oil stain in the corner, and I can just make out the ebony handwriting scratched onto its surface. The bare bones of a recipe my mom lovingly wrote upon it in her younger days. Days she spent baking up a storm in the toasty, fragrant, lime-green kitchen of my early childhood, sometimes alone, sometimes with my aunt, her sister-in-law. But always with the box.
It was home to so many of our favorite sweet treats, many of which we’re still passing around today because they conjure up such nostalgia and warmth within our hearts. One card constantly captured my attention. I can see it in my mind’s eye but, sadly, I’m unable to make out the specific details. I remember cheery red and a strawberry (or several?) in one corner, maybe a border of small strawberries scalloping the edges. As a child I was fascinated by this card, by the simple, rustic, country life I imagined that bright red berry represented. For what’s simpler and quainter than a strawberry? I wonder which recipe was lucky enough to land a home upon that lovely paper? If I knew back then, I’ve long since forgotten, a wistful fantasy to a grown woman whose childhood days are a hazy, distant memory. Maybe it was strawberry jam (that would be fitting!); I’ll have to ask my momma.
Homemade strawberry jam was a staple at our house in those early days. We used to go berry picking (maybe at a local farm, maybe not; I can’t remember), loading up bucket after bucket of ripe, juicy strawberries bursting with sweetness—the sweeter the better for our jam. Details of those days are scattered: Strawberries galore, their headless bodies emitting a fruity, sugary scent that hung in the air. The tangy tones of fresh-squeezed lemon juice. Vacant grass-green baskets stacked and tossed to the side. What, to a child, must have seemed like a million mason jars, cleaned, dried, and perched on the counter in our kitchen. Pots of water boiling away upon the stove. Hours spent watching my momma work, ladling, stirring, straining, canning, preserving. Recollections of days filled with happiness, love, family, and handcrafted goodness.
Those were the best days! Not because we had delicious strawberry jam to spread on our toast or to go with our peanut butter, but because that kitchen epitomized a mother’s labor of love. My mother’s labor of love. And that’s something you can’t put a price on in this day and age. I grew up craving time spent in that kitchen with my mom—all the sights, sounds, smells, tastes born out of her hard work—and I’d give anything to revisit those moments, especially now when this pandemic has kept us apart for so many long months. It burns deep within my soul, this desire to see my mom, to seek shelter within her embrace and just … forget. To be the child again instead of the momma who has to be strong and resilient and upbeat. If only for a little while. I want to sit in her kitchen, pull out that old box, and lose myself in a homemade cloud of flour, sugar, and a mother’s love. ☹
Wow, I’m not sure how the happy, wistful memory of a recipe box and a strawberry jam recipe (which may or may not be enclosed within that box) led me here, LOL, but I suppose that’s the beauty of writing. Inspiration strikes quickly and moves us on a journey of the heart, and right now, it seems my heart lies in a little town on the outskirts of Syracuse.
If you’re reading this, Woman, I miss and love you, a bushel and a peck.