As I sit here on this rainy morning, my thoughts immediately go to my mom. I lost her almost six months ago and I haven't really dealt with it yet because I feel this constant need to call her, or hear her voice and just talk like we once did. My heart and my mind go to my mom this day especially, because today is my birthday and her birthday would have been tomorrow. I want to go pick her up and go for a ride like we always used to do. We would just drive for a while and then pick a place for lunch. Those times were so easy and fun and we always knew we were there for each other.
If I could have anything for my birthday, what would it be? Right now, all I can conjure up are the things my mother did for me. The special touches she did on each gift, and the time and effort she took in baking. I don't know if I have one favorite thing she made. Everything was just so good. It was always better than from anywhere or anyone else. From a young age, she taught me the importance and the difference of baking from scratch.
On Sundays, she would make the lightest and airiest biscuits and she'd do it all with a certain flare. Her hands knew exactly the moves to make so that the dough was not handled too heavily. When they came out of the oven we drizzled them with honey and the whole thing tasted like gold. Once in a while at dinner time, she would make a dessert I've tried to duplicate, but have not figured out exactly. Apple Dumplings with a Vanilla Sauce. The dumplings were served hot, but the sauce was served cold. It tasted just like melted vanilla ice cream and my goodness, it also tasted just like home. Her brownies were always exactly the right texture, and she made them superstars by adding a shiny chocolate glaze. There was no comparison to my mother's pies. To this day, there have been ones that have come this close, but they are not the same. Apple, Peach, Chocolate Cream, Lemon Meringue, Apple Streusel, Rhubarb, Raspberry, Blueberry, Pumpkin. And more. Whenever she made a pie, it felt like a holiday, even if it wasn't. One summer day when I was about 8 years old, she had made a raspberry pie in the morning and then her and I went out for the afternoon to run errands. We couldn't WAIT to get home later and have a piece of pie. I remember we picked up vanilla ice cream to go with it. When we walked in the door, to our horror and sadness, we saw my 16 year old brother, Tim, had eaten the whole thing. The whole pie. By himself. I think we both went a little nuts on him and tried to make him feel horrible. When we were done yelling, he said if there had been another pie there, he would have eaten that one too.
She's made me a few amazing birthday cakes along the way too. Every single one were layer cakes and they were homemade. Real buttercream crowned each cake. We had chocolate cake with chocolate buttercream and chopped walnuts lining the exterior, and, my very favorite, a white cake with a white vanilla buttercream and shredded coconut covering the outside. It was perfection. My world was always safe and good when we had cake. Actually, when I was with my mother, she made me feel that my world was safe and secure in every way, every day.
For me her baking was legendary. I always thought she should have started a business. Her insistence on quality in all that she did started my own love of great food. When I became a chef, she was my biggest fan. For some reason, what I did seemed like the impossible to her. She always asked me how I managed and how I came up with the things I made. And for me, what she did seemed like the impossible. She made our home taste like magic. Those memories are my gift from her on this day. Her love showed everywhere. I'm sure she had no idea how much I was going to need those memories one day, but I do. I am holding them very close to my heart right now. If I close my eyes, I can go back and the aromas coming from the kitchen are still there in my thoughts. There's a birthday cake sitting on the counter. There are hugs, kisses and singing. And then we get to eat.
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