When I think of my mother’s kitchen I do not remember her recipes, but rather her projects— with which my sister and I were always required to help.
In the summer, it was mulberry jam. My sister and I were tasked with collecting the small purple fruit from our backyard tree. While we did, we would pretend to be adventurers; the fruit was our only means of survival. So we’d eat until our lips turned red-violet and our bellies twisted in knots.
In the winter, it was bread. My mother would sift, sprinkle, roll and knead. Then, she’d split the sticky dough three ways. My sister and I were responsible for our own hunks, meaning we could shape our loaves however we liked — which usually resulted in a raisin-eyed bunny or kitten.
But sometimes we’d simply play with it, wrapping silverware in dough-dresses and creating elaborate story lines for Princess Fork and Prince Spoon. The dough would eventually become crumbly and impossible to bake, but my mother never discouraged us.
She may not have passed us her recipes, but through her projects she gave us the space to imagine — which, to me, is worth all the homemade cookies in the world.
Happy Mother’s Day, Mom!