We were sitting around my parents’ house one weekend when my aunt asked if my sister or I had my grandmother’s mac and cheese recipe. She wanted to make it, but wasn’t sure of the ingredients or measurements. We both paused for a minute. We could make it with our eyes closed at this point. But the ingredients? The measurements? That we weren’t so sure of. That’s probably because a grandmother’s recipe isn’t measured by precise quantities or specific ingredients. It’s measured in love.
Sure, I know that’s not completely realistic, and when push came to shove, I was able to jot down the needed notes to create a formal “recipe” as I whipped up my last batch. But it’s so much more than that.
That same mac and cheese recipe my aunt was looking for is the one my husband will randomly come home to on a Thursday night. Not because we had the ingredients. Not because we planned on it. But because I was having an off day and needed something to ground me. To bring me back to my first real feelings of home, the very one I shared with my grandmother. And mostly, to make my grandmother feel closer to me.
Because, that’s how my Grandma showed her love while she was on Earth, and I’m confident that’s how she’s showing it now that she’s in Heaven—through her food.
It’s not lost on me that whenever I’m struggling, I turn to the kitchen. I turn to those recipes that transport me back to a place and time that holds the biggest piece of my heart. We grew up in a home with my grandparents, and the older I get, the more I realize how unbelievably fortunate I was. Being able to recreate those smells and tastes is my way of bringing a sense of peace to my ever-chaotic world.
The same way I text my sister every Lent to ask her to remind me if I need to crack an egg into Grandma’s corn fritter recipe (spoiler alert, the answer is always yes). It’s the way we re-confirm the soda bread recipe every St. Patrick’s Day and the stuffing recipe on Thanksgiving. It’s the same way we’ll be sitting around dinner and say, “Didn’t Grandma used to do it this way?” It’s the way I bring out the rarely used cast-iron skillet on those especially tough days.
Subconsciously, we all know the answers to these questions most of the time. But we ask anyway. We ask because there’s a part that feels if we stop asking about it or stop talking about it, we’ll start slipping further and further away from our loved ones. I can already feel it happening. Her absence seems to grow stronger with the more time that passes. The memories, and the recipes, start to fade just the littlest bit.
And then I remember my grandma cooked with her heart and soul. It was her love language. Whether she was feeding two of us or two hundred of us. If you told her you liked something one time, you can guarantee she would always have it on hand. You never left hungry, and you never left feeling unloved. You sat at the table and were instantly family. She invited everyone who passed by her doorstep in for a cup of tea, and I can safely say that very few ever declined.
Her recipes may have been one of the bigger parts of the legacy she left behind. Both literally and figuratively speaking. But at the end of the day, it’s about so much more than the food on the table. It’s the people around it, and the way it makes you feel. She always knew that. It may have just taken the rest of us a little longer to catch on.
by Katie Cervenec 
by Jenni Brennan 
