Heartstrings and Apron Strings

There is nothing more comforting - besides a hug, a kind word, or a hot cup of tea – than the smell of fresh baked goods wafting through the kitchen. I feel fortunate in that I seem to have inherited the baking gene (if there is such a thing) that my Mom and my siblings have. I still have visions of my mother with her hair tight in rollers or with a bandana wrapped around her dark locks as she’d put on a batch of bread. I loved the feeling (and the taste) of the soft dough before it made its way into the buttered baking pans. On occasion, she’d hand me a little plate on which I could form my own bread creation. My sneaky little fingers would usually find a way to pick at the loaves after they’d emerged from the oven to be slathered with butter, and go on to rest and cool on the gingham dish towel.

Growing up, dessert following supper always meant cakes with tinned fruit cocktail and thick cream or bread puddings and sauces. Bird’s Eye Custard was always a treat too. Bird’s Nests, fudge, and gum drop cake are treats of hers that I miss to this day. After she became really sick when I was in my tenth year, her ventures into the kitchen slowed somewhat. Cookie making was a tradition she maintained at Christmas time with a scattered batch in between seasons. I recall her sitting at the table with the ingredients surrounding her and the mixer going full tilt as standing for long intervals simply wasn’t an option. Her lungs simply couldn’t handle it. When she went on home oxygen after we moved to Newfoundland in July of 1988, she was able to resume her baking somewhat.

Of the things I recall fondly, her Chocolate Cream Cheese brownies were to die for. (I’m sure my siblings would agree!) I have a laminated copy of that particular recipe. I especially love and am grateful for how she managed to leave her chocolate covered thumb print on the corner. Little did she know that her youngest child would pull out that recipe years after her passing and shed quiet tears as she set out to make a batch for the first time. Though the steps of the recipe were followed right down to the exact measurements, the taste and memory of hers were indelible.

My dear Dad was certainly no slouch in the kitchen. At the risk of sounding sexist, he could bake as well as any woman I knew. His homemade bread was phenomenal. When I was a University student, he mastered Chocolate Marshmallow squares - one of my favourite cookies. He would either deliver them via a sister or have them ready for me when I went home.

My siblings each have a knack in the kitchen. From Tarte au Sucre, Coconut Cream Pie, Chocolate Mayonnaise Cake and frosting, Yummy Cookies, Banana Bars, Chocolate Chip Cookies, Peanut Butter Cookies, and Banana Bread, my thighs grow inches at the mere thought of consuming their delicious creations.

I’ll never forget my first foray into the kitchen to bake on my own. It was the summer of 1988 not long after we had moved to Newfoundland. My twelve and a half-year-old self had wanted to surprise Mom with a Gum Drop Cake as a treat after she was released from the hospital. She’d been in there for over a week due to pneumonia and I knew this would be just the thing to lift her spirits. Despite years of close observations and being underfoot each time she, Dad, or ANY of my siblings were in the kitchen, I obviously did not observe closely enough. The cake, which had baked beautifully on the outside, revealed a different story when my Aunt Laura cut into it that evening after supper. You guessed it! I forgot to flour the gum drops. The sweet and moist cake was not particularly enjoyable when the final bites contained a bulk of the baking gums. All politely consumed it though their jaws had probably wished they hadn’t.

Baking is a tradition I am glad to share with my children. I recall making my way around the kitchen with them as infants strapped into a carrier. As they grew, the followed me around and loved to help measure, pour, stir, and finally be my taste testers once the treats were ready. For the longest time, my fifteen-year-old had aspired to become a chef and a baker. Though that dream has faded, I am glad she has mastered her way around the kitchen. My thirteen-year-old makes a mean box of Kraft Dinner. That too may be a helpful skill as those post-secondary days are slowly but surely creeping up on us at an alarming rate.

Isn’t it funny how the smell of my dear sister Claudette’s cookie recipe brought all of this to the forefront this evening? Or perhaps the idea was forming since the scent of the Banana Bread I baked a few days ago warmed my senses? Either way, baking is something that connects my past and my present selves. My memories are sorted, divided, and tied up in heartstrings as easily as my hand had wrapped around my Mother’s apron strings so many years ago.