“If God had intended us to follow recipes, He wouldn’t have given us grandmothers.”
~ Linda Henley
I made soup yesterday.
It was a simple soup. A humble soup.
It needed to be. I was so sore. So tired. Fevered. But dinner had to be made, and I wasn’t going to eat junk. Or toast again.
I wanted soup.
My hands were automatic. They cut vegetables. They stirred. They lifted the spoon to my mouth so I could taste the seasoning.
A pinch of this.
A sprinkle of that.
Then all left to simmer for a few hours while I lay down to rest again.
Suddenly I was transported back to Nana’s kitchen. This was her recipe. I made it with her so many times. It was nothing that could be written down. Only instructions that could be remembered. That were passed from her mother’s hands to her hands. And then to mine.
Where had it come from before that?
My great-great grandmother, probably.
I found such comfort in that idea. All of those caring hands, all of that wisdom passed one to another in the practical ways of true nurture. I could feel Nana’s hands guiding mine as though I were a tiny child again, back in the days when I would stand on an upturned crate to reach her kitchen bench.
I felt wrapped in the blanket of my Nana’s love. I tasted love in every spoonful of soup.
It restored me to myself, somehow.
And then I slept, long and well.
That kind of food has its own kind of healing magic.