Passing it On

In Southern families, recipes and cooking tips are often passed down from mother to daughter; there is something very powerful and important about the way that works. It’s way of passing not only family traditions, but also preserving the memory of someone you love. I’m writing this entry because I am losing the person who inspired me to get into baking and cooking in general. My mom can cook, but she doesn’t have the same ridiculous obsession I seem to have with food and cooking and baking; I think it skipped a generation, and my Nanny (maternal grandmother for those of you who don’t know) passed her love of cooking to me.

When I was younger and my Pa (my Nanny’s third husband and the man I counted as my true maternal grandfather) was alive, Christmas Brunch was done at their big house on the farm, and it was huge. My Nanny would cook so much that you would think she was feeding an army. Massive piles of homemade biscuits and bowls of homemade gravy, plates full of sausage, ham, and bacon, plenty of scrambled eggs, a huge turkey, real mashed potatoes, corn, pinto beans, rolls, macaroni and cheese, and so much more. There were probably twenty of us back then, maybe a few more, and the spread was always more than we could eat; on top of that she made desserts, pecan pie, chess pie, chocolate cake, plus a variety of candies she’d made. Thanksgivings and Easters were similar, though breakfast food was not prepared. Her habit of cooking large meals was not deterred when the number of people was smaller or when it was just a Sunday dinner; my Nanny always cooked for an army. I honestly think her enthusiasm inspired my own interest in culinary attempts, and I will always be grateful for that. There is a picture of me, when I was no more than a year old or so I think, sitting on the counter, covered in flour, while my Nanny made biscuits; I know for a fact that I was the only grandchild who was ever permitted to do such a thing, and I remember her excitement when I first expressed interest in learning to cook.

Mama is often full of advice when I need it, but often, when it comes to cooking, Nanny is the person I need. I always ask my mom things like “How did Nanny do this?” or “Do you remember if Nanny had a recipe for this?”, and her typical response was to tell me to call her; now I won’t be able to do that. My Nanny is very ill, and she is not going to get better; she was such a big part of my life, and now she is going to be gone. It’s breaking my heart, and I am barely handling it. I was so proud of myself for making her “No Fail Chocolate Pie” on the first attempt, and when my biscuits turned out perfectly for the first time, but I only got to share the pie moment with her because by the time I attempted biscuits from scratch (for some reason I never got around to it until just recently) she was already far too ill; it killed me that while I could tell her all about it, she couldn’t laugh and joke about how easy it was and suggest something new for me to try. Soon I will only have her recipes and the memory of her voice, and I’m not sure how to handle it. I love my Nanny, and I will miss her so much; I already miss her. That is why I’ve made up my mind that the bakery and sweets shop I plan to eventually have will be called “A Taste of Joy” in honor of Barbara Joy Smith, my Nanny, the woman who opened my eyes and introduced me to the joy of cooking. This blog has officially been retitled permanently as “A Taste of Joy”, and hopefully I will get the money to purchase a decent domain name as well.