The Missing Ingredient

Watching her granddaughter keep their tradition alive, she couldn’t help but smile. She hoped that the young girl could feel her presence, and that she hadn’t forgotten what her grandmother taught her. A wave of sadness and longing washed over her as she watched her struggle to make the holiday dinner preparations alone. Grandma knew the first year would be the hardest, the first Thanksgiving after she passed. She found herself hoping that she would persist, that the loss would not make her want to give up. 

She was touched that her granddaughter was still trying so hard, that her absence did not rob her of her passion. That’s all she needed to know, to truly be at peace. As long as her spirit was kept alive through cooking, she had no doubt that she would live on in every dish, and that she would be present at every family occasion. She knew that her granddaughter would remember her this way. When she was just a young girl, Grandma shared a secret with her, a secret she made her swear not to tell, and she was certain that as long as she remembered that secret, she would be just fine.

— 

Thanksgiving, 19 years ago 

I burst into the door, sprinting to the kitchen where the smell of food and the sound of humming filled the air. 

“Grandma!” I exclaimed, running to her with arms stretched wide. I collided with her aproned waist and hugged her tight.

“Hey, pumpkin,” Grandma chuckled as she wrapped her arms around me, planting a kiss on top of my head as she did so. “You’re just in time,” she informed me as she turned her gaze back to the cluttered countertop where all the prep work had been completed. “I was just getting ready to start. I can’t do it without my little helper.”

I ran to the pantry to retrieve my usual step stool. I unfolded it and set it on the floor next to Grandma, climbing up eagerly and beaming up at her as I rolled up my sleeves. My stool was the perfect height, and gave me a prime vantage point of the countertop without having to stand on my tiptoes. 

“What are we going to do first?” I smiled in excitement, unable to contain my eagerness to begin preparing Thanksgiving dinner. “The noodles? The potatoes? The cranberry sauce?”

“All in due time my dear,” Grandma beamed down at me as she said, “But first, we have to stuff the turkey.” 

The stuffing was cooling on the kitchen island in a glass casserole dish behind us. Without having to be told, I jumped off my stool and grabbed it with mittened hands, careful not to drop the heirloom dish that had been in the family for generations. I slowly lugged the stuffing over, hoisting it up as I stepped back onto my step stool. I set it on the counter with a definitive nod, wiping a bead of sweat from my brow afterwards. I didn’t know how Grandma managed to do all this hard work for us all the time, but she always did it with love and ease. I was always grateful, and ever since I could remember, she was my hero. 

“Someday will you show me how to make your famous stuffing, Grandma?” I asked, lowering my head and breathing in deeply over the casserole dish. I knew there was something special inside that made it taste so great; there was a secret ingredient in everything she made, and I couldn’t wait to know what was in her famous stuffing.  

“Of course, sugar,” Grandma replied as I helped her stuff the turkey. “There’s always next year.”

When we were done, I eagerly opened the oven for her, using both my small hands and all my might. When I closed it, I dusted off my hands, proud of my job well done. 

“What’s next?” I danced in place, unable to contain my excitement as I scanned the quaint kitchen. There were peeled and diced potatoes boiling on the stove, a sugar concoction warming up in a small pot next to them, and freshly rolled out dough on the counter to my right. There was an assortment of dishes and mixing bowls all around, and countless spices and ingredients were already set up at their respective stations. I couldn’t help but think that this was my favorite place to be: in Grandma’s kitchen, helping her make the best food in the whole entire world. 

“Why don’t you help me cut the noodles while everything boils?” Grandma instructed as she handed me a butter knife. “I’ve got the dough ready for you.” 

I did my best to steady my tiny wavering hands as I sliced through the dough, trying to make skinny long strips. Grandma never got mad if I cut the strips too crooked or too big; she just smiled her warm reassuring smile as I attempted to be her little shadow in everything I did. 

I helped mash the potatoes and mix the cranberries into the bubbling sugary mixture on the stove. Grandma entrusted me with her knowledge of the seasonings and secrets that made her foods unique. It was a responsibility that I was more than willing to take on, and it always made me feel special. No one else knew what Grandma and I knew. 

“Now for the finishing touches,” Grandma whispered as she crept to the pantry to retrieve the secret ingredients, as if she was going on an undercover mission. Making sure no one else but me was around, she tucked the goods under her apron and hurried back to the counter where I waited, giggling at the idea of getting caught, at the idea of being the only one special enough to be in on the mystery. 

As I slowly added the ingredients just as Grandma instructed, I marveled at how she knew what was needed without any calculations. There were no measuring cups or measuring spoons to be found in her kitchen. She was confident, and I knew that could only come from many years of dedicated learning. Grandma had been cooking long before I was even born.

“I think that’ll just about do it,” Grandma declared proudly as she gave her head a decisive nod and wiped her hands on her apron. “I sure do appreciate your help, sugar.” Ruffling my hair and patting me on the back, she added, “Now it’s time to wash up. Hurry now.” With a wink she gently pushed me toward the kitchen sink. I quickly washed my hands and prepared for my favorite meal of the year. 

The thing I loved most - second to helping Grandma - was eating the delicious food that I helped her prepare. The only other thing I loved just as much as helping her cook was seeing how it brought the whole family together, and the warm feeling it always gave me. It was a feeling that I would cling to even after she passed on. 

—

Present Day

“Shoot,” I muttered to myself as the water started to boil over. I was hosting my very first Thanksgiving at my new home, the first since Grandma had passed. Nothing was going right: the dough wasn’t the right consistency, I didn’t buy enough cranberries, and now water was spilling out of the pot where the potatoes were boiling too heavily, soaking the stovetop and the counter. The turkey was dry and I had forgotten some of the main ingredients to the stuffing. I remembered then that I never got the chance to learn Grandma’s secret ingredient all those years ago when I was a child. And I couldn’t take it. 

As I leaned against the counter with my head in my hands, I thought of the one person who always seemed to flawlessly execute the impossible. The one who taught me everything I know. Grandma was sorely missed by everyone, but most of all by me. Her little helper was all grown up, but as I got older I only loved cooking more and more, especially with the best cook in the whole world. 

I knew there was a secret in every recipe Grandma made. I was fortunate enough to learn most of them at a very young age. As a child, I was always in the kitchen with her, whether it was Sundays after church, birthdays or holidays; no matter the occasion, the memories were always unforgettable. And it was all because of Grandma’s cooking. I never knew what it meant to me until now, until she was gone. I’ve been trying to keep her memory alive through food ever since. Years later there is still something missing, and it took my whole life to realize that it wasn’t due to improper measurements, or forgetting that extra splash of vanilla or that extra dash of seasoning. I realized that it was Grandma’s love that brought everything together.