I’m baking yam rolls for Thanksgiving. It’s from the recipe my mom passed down to me through bits of chicken scratch pencil markings and partial gestimations of ingredients. There isn’t a specified amount of time to bake them, or a proper temperature. But I remember her favorite baking temperatures: 350 or 375, and I know they ought to be golden brown on top because I remember eating them. So I cook by guessing too. Like her. But I still wish she was here to peer into the oven with me; to check whether the rolls are done just by how they smell.
I pull the milk out of the fridge and begin to pour it into the measuring cup. It spits and splutters and makes a bit of a mess. Like the way it did three months ago when I was standing in my childhood kitchen with my dad. He was pouring out of a carton just like the one in my hand. He had used the same type of carton for years, and inevitably it always splashed across the counter and onto his pants – an uneven stream of milk cascading awkwardly into his mug. We could all see it coming. There was no need for unexpected surprise as it was simply part of his daily routine. Yet, he would always be caught off guard and curse at the milk for dirtying his freshly washed pants. I miss hearing his befuddlement. I miss helping him clean up the spills.
Kneading the dough and smelling the yeast mixed with the sweetness of the yams (which were in truth sweet potatoes) made me remember how my mom would smell this time of year… always of delicious foods and yeast. There was so much bread. She was a master chef. The food wasn’t always pretty, and definitely not always healthy. But it always tasted of love and warmth. This was how I knew she loved me. This is how we all knew she loved us.
It makes me smile to remember the time she “baked” chocolate covered cotton balls and passed them around with a cheeky grin. The first few people took them not knowing her more mischievous side. She stood by trying to contain her glee, watching their faces intently. Inevitably someone would get a mouth full of cotton ball and the expression to match the surprise and disgust would delight my mom. She was always tickled to watch people squirm.
The kitchen was the center of our family; and my mom its heart. We would talk over dirty dishes, laugh over bubbling pots of soup, and cry for the things we had lost while peering into the dimly lit fridge for ingredients… or ice cream. I cannot help but think of them when I’m in my kitchen preparing Thanksgiving for my family – nourishing my families bodies and hearts. And amidst the memories, and the stirring, the kneading and the baking, the smells and the taste tests, it makes sense that I cry the most when I’m in the kitchen.
Family is so much more than a jumble of people. It’s a flavor. It’s a sensation. And sometimes it’s a pang of heart ache.
This Thanksgiving will mark my first as an adult orphan. And while I began my life as an orphan, it’s not quite the same. Not exactly. It’s a rounder feeling, more full belly. I feel somehow nourished even amid my deep sense of loss.
I may not be sharing a meal with my parents this Thanksgiving, but they will be there. They will arrive in the spilled milk and the sweet smells of yam rolls baking in the oven, in the cheeky grins of my children and in the tears and laughter shared in memory of my parents.
It will be messy and painful, amazing and wonderful. It will taste like love.
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