Passed down through the generations
Worn books on cooking are stacked next to me: Mexican, old-time Poland, peasant Italian, and Chinese classics.
One of my most cherished pastimes is reading stories and recipes from old-style cookbooks. There’s much wisdom and history hidden within the pages.
Stories passed down the generations, gatherings in the kitchen––a haven for family and friends. Regardless of our origin, there seems a commonality of sharing our joy, comfort, and sorrow through food.
Immersing ourselves in other people’s cultures offers a new perspective. You learn their customs and pick up some beautiful new traditions.
Settling in, I set my tea down. My Shepard is on his favorite rug. He’s resting his head on my slippers, one watchful eye open.
The thunder is loud, and the skies are grey — a perfect excuse to linger. My eyes are drawn outside to the colored array of blossoming trees.
I snuggle in a bit deeper and pull up the covers. The appreciation I feel in this space at this exact moment feels surreal — peace is abundant from within.
Slowing down in simplicity is when it happens most.
Today, I’ll learn about the woman’s food and life in Poland.
I’ll try to replicate the time she spent — the love she gave within the walls of her kitchen — nurturing loved ones souls while appeasing everyone’s hunger.
As I craft my version of her cabbage rolls, I’ll attempt to offer much of the same in my own well-intended ways.
I imagine she learned how to cook from her mother, who learned from her mother, and so on. It’s a blessed offering, what we pass on to the next.
Many hours are spent in the kitchen, preparing and sharing our lives. It soon becomes a valued tradition we may not appreciate until it’s too late.
All mothers are unique, giving their own special gifts and love in uncountable ways. Mine is through cooking, and I hope my children might treasure my humble offerings one day.
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