Inspired to Bake

Easter is just days away. My kitchen fills with the sights and smells of Holy Week baking just like my mother and grandmother's kitchens before me. I recall these women, my creative baking mentors whose hands lovingly crafted honey dolls fashioned out of dough, Easter bunny cakes with just the right amount of coconut, and mounds of delicious cookies. Their artistry was well known in their neighborhoods. Remembering the Easters of my life, I bake for family and friends to celebrate the spiritual and temporal joys of the Easter season.

Messy baking tins, bowls filled with different colored frosting, and platters of chocolate dipped cookies waiting for the finishing touches are lined up. From my mother and grandmother, I learned that the presentation stage is an important part of the creative process. 

Usually, I take photos of my finished creations but there was such a rush this morning that I had no time to photograph the Easter week treats that were carefully placed in an open weave, spring-green plastic basket laced with a pink bow. Easter filler was placed in the bottom of the basket. On top of this, I stacked chewy brownies, different varieties of chocolate chip cookies, and Easter eggs of brownie dough covered in yellow, buttercream frosting with a touch of Triple Sec, and finished with a layer of coconut. I was pleased with the presentation and so were the recipients.

Baking by Phoebe Boswall is a fitting poem that shares the experience of baking and remembering a loved one. 

Smells of baking remind me of you.
Your red apron, my small striped one with the torn pocket.
Your soft stretched skin, fingers kneading dough
into a ball. My fat floury hands
grasped for your amber necklace,
Quick, Phoebe, the oven.

You played with flavours,
made little blobs of buttery dough on the tray
Your warm kitchen my safe haven.

You can read the rest of the poem here.



Smells of baking remind me of you,
Anise seeds, almond extract, sweet honey,
they lift my senses, taking me back to childhood-
little fingers stroking an oversized rolling pin,
playing baker, standing by your side on summer days.
Your warm kitchen, small for modern day baking,
was my childhood playground and learning ground.
I remember your wisdom with each cookie I create.
©CV, 2019

I join the delightful, children poet, Amy Vanderwater at The Poem Farm for the Poetry Friday Roundup as National Poetry Month continues.

Recollections

When I was a child I loved visiting my grandmother who would spin magic during springtime. Everything she touched came alive. Even chores took on new meaning. Little did I know back then that each loving act Nonnie engaged in was a poetic expression of love for family. 

Life was full during springtime that rolled into summer. I spent curious childhood days watching Nonnie move from chore to chore with ease and enjoyment. Each task was lovingly carried out and I delighted in being the little helper.

Churn the clothes

round and round.

Hang them up

Clip clasp sound.

Tend the garden

roses first

snip snap smells 

readily burst.

I followed my Nonnie with curiosity and respect, as though she was the Pied Piper. Everything we did seemed like fun. When I wasn't engaged in chores, we would take long walks to the library or the drug store to buy the latest fashion comic. Although Nonnie could not read or write in English, she valued education and fostered a love of reading for her granddaughter. Her passion for life spilled over, influenced my quest to learn more, and increased my desire for playful adventures. I explored the nooks in the big white house, romped through the lawn, and ran between each garden bed to smell the fragrant flowers. I imagined myself as a traveler roaming new lands and grew up longing to see the country Nonnie left to come to America in 1920. 

There was so much that life offered with Nonnie. Harvesting vegetables and grapes was another fascinating adventure that awaited me as the little helper. In the back of the large white house that stood next to a beautiful park lush with trees was a vegetable garden. A huge vine of grapes stood tall at the entrance. Next to that was an extensive plot with varieties of vegetables and giant tomatoes to cultivate. Life was full with sights, sounds, and tastes of springtime that rolled into summer.  

Each morning, I would go to the kitchen, the hub of the house, to watch Nonnie prepare the food. The kitchen was such a happy place filled with the robust scents of fresh basil, parsley, vanilla, anise, and lemon icing. During the week, Nonnie kneaded dough into sweet Italian confections, created perfectly-formed handmade noodles, and washed clothes with a wringer that flattened each item with the twist of a handle. I loved to watch her pin clothes with large wooden clothespins and hang them to dry in the sun. I can still visualize the wet items flip flopping in the breeze.  I learned to be a very good assistant who passed the clothespins to my grandmother, learned to shuck peas, make Italian sauce from bushels of fresh tomatoes, prune roses, and enjoy life all due to a woman who may have been tiny in stature but large in heart. 

Years went by and childhood matured into motherhood. Balancing work and home life was time-consuming. Chores did not sing the same tune as in Nonnie's world. Life changed through the decades. Housework was no longer the sole work of the mother. There were other responsibilities to be met. What did remain constant was that spring rolled into summer just the same and life was full with feelings of family and love. 

Mother's Day is a day to recollect the love that fills our lives while remembering those who shaped our existence. Families bond, friends chat, celebrations are plentiful. Each year, I recollect memories of a loving grandmother and a wonderful mother who were shiny examples of motherhood. 

With the voices of angels,

eyes as sweeping as the sky,

and hearts as deep as the ocean,

my two mothers filled the air with love,

exemplifying that moment to moment-

giving is a gift of the heart. 

Storytelling is a gift of the heart that mothers seem to deliver to the children.

My love for storytelling comes from the women who offered it to me during springtime that rolled into summer each year.

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Each Tuesday, Two Writing Teachers offer writers from across the nation the opportunity to share their Slice of Life. Please visit the site where you will find interesting texts to read.