the receipe box

This past week, while taking care of insurance business, I got into a conversation with my insurance agent. She was telling me about her recent visit to her mother's house. Her mother collects things like bread wrappers and bread wrapper ties. When she visits her mother, she tries to throw things out when her mother isn't looking. She knows, if her mother would discover these things in the trash, there would be rummaging and the foraged items would make their way back into the house. As my agent continued her story, she told me how she and her brother found drawers of her mother's receipes. These she didn't discard, but instead, bought scrapbooks and carefully saved each one. I could tell that those receipes meant more to her than just food preparation.

Last evening, I was reminded of something I meant to do, but kept forgetting. Since I had been mentally reminded of this several times, I thought I better do it. The pretense was that it might be a fire hazard. I was to remove a collection of grocery bags that I had stacked near a light switch. As I was gathering them to put in a safer place, I was thinking, there may be more to this venture than safety. Sure enough, at the bottom of the bags was my own mother's receipe box.

My mother passed away almost two years ago and I have been trying to slowly get rid of what she left behind. I might add here, that often I feel overwhelmed. I took the worn brown box with its carefully organized receipes and began to browse. Some my mother had written herself, copied from a book or friend's receipe collection. Some were quite worn with age, receipes of foods I remembered eating as a child.

In this moment of discovery, stopped by a mental suggestion, I wondered why I was to discover these reminders of my mother. Maybe it was because I had been keeping especially busy, trying to come to terms with her death. Maybe, I needed a gentle reminder of who my mother was, the perfect example of hospitality with her lovingly prepared dishes. Tears flowed as I gently touched each receipe. I allowed myself to stay with the moment.

I went to bed thinking about my mother, wishing I could tell her how much I appreciated the food she prepared for me. How it was her expression of love for me and my family. When I finally fell asleep, I was thinking how many times I did tell her how much I loved her cooking. She would smile and say, "You always know when Jane loves her food."

Maybe this occasion was a gentle reminder that remembering doesn't have to be with regret and a sense of loss. It can just be.....remembering.