In terms of giving, it’s true that grand, elaborate gestures can take your breath away. But, sometimes a small act of kindness can too – especially when it connects you with people you love.
When I was a child, my mother made pumpkin bread for what seemed like the entire neighborhood every holiday. I remember it vividly: a warm, nutmeg-clove-allspice-and-cinnamon perfume wafted through the kitchen as her loaves baked in small coffee cans. It rose in waves of warm that cooled on wire racks before she wrapped them in cellophane and bright red or plaid holiday ribbon. Then, it was time to deliver them, door-to-door, before it got too dark on early winter evenings. We rang doorbells and handed them over to unsuspecting neighbors who greeted us with cheerful thanks and holiday wishes.
It’s funny how a smell can transport you. I used her recipe to bake for a few neighbors this year. The aroma bursting from my kitchen took me back in the house I grew up in… with the music of her voice narrating who we’d take the bread to… the clatter of the oven door opening and closing – and the unmistakable feeling of being at home.
I mentioned the experience to my mom, and the next time I saw her she handed me something that literally took my breath away. Inside a gallon ziploc was the recipe box that had been in our pantry for what seemed like my entire life. Mom kept it on a high shelf – next to large canisters of flour, sugar, salt and other staples…. a row above all the canned goods, peanut butter and spices – way higher than the marks she made with chalk, sharpie and ballpoint pen inside the door frame to record how tall my brother and I grew year after year.
Back to the present day: The box had yellow and blue flowers on it with green leaves that curved around them. These colors had remained crisp while the white around it all had grown a little darker with age. So had the recipe cards that were poking out of the top. And, in the front: You guessed it. Her pumpkin bread recipe.
Long before the age of Pinterest, she switched from this box of cards to a more modern way of keeping, saving and accessing recipes. So, this little relic probably sat, untouched, for decades. And, now, it was like a time capsule for an era in our lives when Christmas was magical in a way it only is for children.
As I looked through the collection of hand-written recipe cards and notepad pages, cut-out pieces of magazines and newspapers, I read some of them out loud to her. She reminisced about meals, parties, get-togethers and holidays long gone by when she had made and served some of the dishes and baked goods. And, she laughed at others she had saved and never made once.
And, then it hit me. This turned out to be a gift for both of us.
Don’t you love it when that happens?
Go Solo Me! 