A Recipe Book: Important

Sugar Cookies

Baked May 7th

Little hands make a grab for the container, and in just a few minutes the 30 cookies are nothing but crumbs. The children of the daycare smile and rant about my food. One child, whose name might be Diane, ran up to me and handed me half her cookie. 

“Because you didn’t get one.” She says happily. Then she wraps her arms around my legs, easily three feet shorter than me. “Thank you!” The rest of the children run at me until I’m completely swarmed in small gremlins now fueled by sugar.

I am happy the rest of the day, and no one can wipe the smile from my face.

Spaghetti and Meatballs.

Cooked on July 25th

My brother has a date. 

He asked me to cook for him and his girlfriend. 

I have never made this meal before.

Even though the dish is simple my room is illuminated well past 1 in the morning, all spent searching for the perfect recipe. 

The next day is spent finding the best ingredients. My brother only shakes his head and follows along like a lost puppy.

“It doesn’t have to be perfect.” He chides, now dragging his feet. 

It has to be perfect. 

I spend hours chopping the ingredients, my hand moving in the same rhythmic movement as the thousands of Youtube videos taught me. 

The kitchen smells of spices, of home-cooked food, of love, when I am finished. 

My brother claims he made it to his girlfriend. 

I am not angry. I do not love his girlfriend. She does not need to know I made the food. His girlfriend is new, an unfamiliar presence in the house. 

My brother is a constant, shining smile, always ready to steal a bite of my newest recipe or lick my spoons even though I told him not to. 

I made it for my brother, not her. 

Birthday Cake

Cooked August 18th

This cake was made with two. Mara danced in my kitchen, blasting music while I baked. She recited poems and read her script for the school play. Her presence is big. Even my brother is pulled from his room to watch her sweep through my kitchen, in her cloud of music and words. She is loud and noisy and not how I like to bake.

I cook in silence, focused only on my food. 

Mara is chaos and music, and the insistent tapping of feet. 

The cake ends up a splatter of colors, all mixed together in a swirling mass. 

Mara loves the cake. 

My mind is constantly upset at the colors that do not match, and how it leans to the side. 

But Mara loves the cake and it’s imperfections and I love her, and thus the birthday cake is not a complete failure. 

Meringues

Baked October 28th

My friends all gathered in Mara’s house. We all curled onto her couch, just as messy as the girl herself, and watched scary movies until we were all clinging to one another, afraid of the screens. 

My meringues sat on the table, slowly being devoured until I was sent home with an empty container. 

Meringues are a simple food, but they are reminders of my friends, of their sweetness, and their warmth. 

Cupcakes

Cooked December 3rd

Lilah had a volleyball match today. I made her cupcakes. 

I decorated each with a perfect swirl, the same colors as her team.

They did not win and now my food is one of comfort in loss. 

The opposing team did not get cupcakes. 

Lilah said to me, “I wish I could bake like you,” 

I wish I was as strong as her, as good at sports as her. 

But I am not. 

At least I can make cupcakes.

Thumbprint Cookies

Baked December 22nd

I am once again not alone in the kitchen. Tiny cousins and aunts and grandparents swarm the kitchen. Some wish to aid in my baking, others simply wish to talk. To ask about school, about boys, about everything in between. 

I find it hard to slip into my rhythm of baking, of the simplicity of my love for it. 

I burn the first batch.

And the second. 

My cousins press their thumbs into the dough, marking each an individual memory. 

My family fawns and preens over my food. I shrink back, not used to such praise. I only wish to bake, to show my love, not to have other forms of love forced on me. 

Fresh Bread and Macarons

Baked March 30th

Food baked for a secret love, for a picnic under the stars. 

She loves Macarons. She could talk for hours about the perfect way to bake them, about the flavors and colors and history. Her words are like soft dough. 

She could talk for hours and I will listen for hours. 

I have never made macarons before, but they are her favorite and she is mine. 

Never before have I spent so much time on a recipe. 

Three batches are dumped into the trash.

Two are given to my brother for his own girlfriend.

One is packed away into a box, stuffed with paper and a tiny handwritten note.

One is left in her locker. 

The bread is for the picnic. She brings jam and my macarons. She leans against my shoulder, her fingers pulling apart my bread as she talks. 

She talks about everything and anything.

I love her. 

Grilled Cheese Sandwiches

Made on November 24th

My father taught me to make grilled cheese. He would guide my tiny fingers across the bread, letting me watch the stove, and flip the sandwiches. 

It is the first meal I learned to make.

My father taught me to love cooking and cooking for those I love. 

And now I cook for myself. 

I have made dishes for my family, my friends, and for my girlfriend, but I never cook for myself. 

So now I am alone, suffering through college and I find myself in front of the stove making a grilled cheese. 

For once my meal is for me. 

It is a meal of grief for the life I have left behind, and one of hope for the life I still have left to give. 

But this is food for me and me alone.