By Melissa Farris 
There’s a recipe in my cookbook so caked with flour and cinnamon that my mother’s handwriting struggles to be seen. It’s for sweet roll dough, a recipe both my maternal and paternal grandmothers used and passed down. There’s just a difference in how many eggs and flour you choose to use.
From this dough, meals that memories are made of take the shape of pizza, cinnamon rolls, Runzas (for us Midwesterners), or simple dinner rolls. For our family, it’s a Sunday night tradition of homemade pizza and a movie and Monday morning cinnamon rolls to start the week. Not much says relaxation to me like dough rising on the counter; it helps me feel ready for the week.
Don’t get me wrong, 25 years ago, I would’ve sworn up and down I was going to hire all my cooking done. I didn’t have the time or interest in seeing what a valuable skill this was—not only to provide for my family but for my own connection with my heritage. In my mind, women had been banished to the kitchen, and as a strong female, I needed to do all I could to not be in the kitchen to prove my worth. As I’ve aged and experienced a bit more of life, I’ve come to realize just how small a viewpoint this is.
There’s something incredibly fulfilling in being able to provide a delicious meal for my family. Yes, I am tired from a full day but helping teach my children responsibility by setting the table or chopping vegetables is imperative to their growth. Then, enjoying what we’ve made together around the table and hearing about their days builds those bonds that would otherwise break down behind screens and hurried hugs. Cooking has allowed me to connect with my family. It’s also allowed me to connect with my heritage.
As I develop new aches and pains, I’m realizing just how human my loved ones are. I lost my paternal grandmother when I was six months old but my maternal grandmother is still here. Frail, but here. Each week when I knead that dough, I think of my grandmothers as young women, probably in similar positions: grateful for all we have, but still struggling to raise children, balance finances, be a wife, and find quiet to talk with God. We’re not so different, even if 60 years separate us.
This year my third-grader was able to share items with her classmates about her family heritage. I immediately thought of that cookbook I received at a bridal shower all those years ago from my mother and carefully packed it up for her to share.
Someday, I’ll need to rewrite the recipe for my children, but right now, I relish being able to make that dough each week without needing to even look at the recipe. Instead, I use this time to think about my grandmothers and mother, to wonder what dreams they had and what dreams have come true for them while making this same recipe. They didn’t know how things would turn out for them, but they had trust in God and knew He was in control, and they understood that He was always with them.
I find comfort in this thought and carry this same faith as my hands go through the same repetitive motion as theirs while kneading the dough, praying and dreaming for my own children and someday, much further in the future, my grandchildren.
by Megan Neisius 
by Janene Dutt 
