Homecoming (Part II)

I am home and have been for two months. Two months now and it still feels like we just got here. It's been so strange adjusting. I feel caught somewhere between wanting to preserve it exactly the way I remember and wanting to make our home our own. The barn is cleaner now but we are waiting until summer to start the repairs which has given me a lot of time to focus on getting the house unpacked. The problem is, it feels so disrespectful to take their stuff down and replace it with our own. I feel like a trespasser in my own home most days. My eyes scan the handwritten titles on the spines of the books in front of me for the tenth time in as many minutes.

I wobble atop the chair as I turn away from the cupboard “Are you sure you don’t want to make cookies?” I peer down from my unsteady perch.

“You said if I do all my chores that I got to pick my own treat.” My daughter tells me. Absently, she flips through the cookie recipes in the books on the counter.

“Yeah, but I thought you’d want something from the store.” I mutter, more to myself than her as I take one last hopeful glance at the books stacked inside the cupboard. “I can’t find the cake recipe book.” I tell her a bit louder. Defeated, I set down the recipe book still clutched in my hand as if holding it could transform it into the one I needed. 

“We have Google, mom.” she rolls her eyes.

“You know great-grandma’s recipes are the best recipes.” I argue back with a wink. 

“No she doesn’t, you do!” She has the self-assuredness that comes only with childhood but the flattery is easy to dismiss.

With a sigh, I climb down from the chair drag it back to the table and take a seat on it. “She taught me those recipes. I tweaked a few of them over the years but those are her recipes.” I gesture for her to sit down in one of the empty chairs across from me. “Every Christmas, grandma would make trays and trays of cookies for the family, and they were always so perfect and delicious!”

“Is that my great-grandma that we go visit at the cemetery?” She asks, tucking her hair behind her ear as it drifts across her vision.

“It is! This was her house when I was a kid.” I smile. “Your uncle Jack and I always spent our summers out here when we were little. When I was about your age, a little bit older actually, she got sick so we moved in to help take care of the farm for her and grandpa. Jack took care of all the horses and I took care of the house stuff.” I stare out the window at the barn, a small smile creeping across my face as the nostalgia hits me like a wave.

The dead grass and gloomy autumn day stares back at me through the protective layer of glass from the window. I sort through the memories rolling around inside my head, trying to find the threads that lead to the afternoons spent baking in this kitchen. Baking with her.

“Is that why you always make so many cookies at Christmas?” her fingers trace along the recipe for the famous apple oatmeal cookies that were always the hit at every bake sale.

“Actually, there’s a story behind it. She gave me her recipe books when I was thirteen. The chemo made her too sick and tired to bake the cookies that Christmas by herself. So, we made them together. I tried so hard to make them perfect but I was still learning how to bake and didn’t have a lot of experience so I think that was the worst Christmas cookies the family ever had. But at least they looked delicious!” I let out a dry chuckle as my eyes mist over with the memories. 

“That February, the doctors said she was in remission.”

“What does that mean?” she stares up at me, invested. She always has loved hearing stories about life when I was a kid.

“Well, she had cancer so they gave her special medicine to shrink it down and destroy it. When she went back for tests and scans, they couldn’t find it anymore.”

“So, it means she got better?”

“Not exactly. Unfortunately, a lot of times the cancer will come back. It just means it’s gone away for at least a little while.

“Anyways, we were all so happy but grandma… she seemed sad still. Without the treatments, she got a bit stronger and was able to get around the house on her own again. It wasn’t until June that we found out the cancer hadn’t actually gone into remission, it was just so small that they missed it on the scans. And by September, she was gone.”

“Mom, don’t cry. It’s okay!” She rose from her seat and wrapped her arms around my neck, pulling me in to a tight hug.

I smile through my tears and assure her I’m okay before continuing. “I didn’t get to the Christmas miracle, yet!

“See, we didn’t know until later but, grandma seemed to know she wouldn’t make it to Christmas. So, when Jack and I were at school, she secretly started baking cookies and burying them in the freezer underneath all the meat and vegetables. Then, when Christmas arrived, we found a bunch of plastic containers lining the bottom of the chest freezer with masking tape labels that said ‘Christmas 2004’ in her handwriting. I took the first one out and opened it up, inside were neat little stacks of her ginger molasses cookies. Each container had a different kind. It was like we got to have her back for one last Christmas. Let me tell you kid, you have never seen such a large group of people break down and cry over a plate of cookies!”

We giggle together for a moment as she returns to her seat. 

“In honour of that Christmas, and all the christmases before it, I bake her cookies for the whole family so we can have a piece of her with us still.” I let out a heavy sigh. 

“And you can’t find her cake recipe book in the cupboard.” She stares down at the table, lost in her thoughts for a moment. With a decisive nod, she tells me “We can make something else if you want.”

I consider her offer, knowing fully that it is time to embrace some change in my life. I can't mourn them forever. I can't be afraid to live my life without them.

“You know what? Sometimes we have to let go of the past and do our own thing, too. You wanted a chocolate cake. Let’s look for a recipe on my phone. We can make our very own recipe book.” I give her a big smile and start scanning the recipes online with her. 

We find one that she likes and together, we start to get out the baking supplies and ingredients. 

When it is finished, my daughter takes great pride in her decorating skills, turning it into a piece of delicious art.

After a few alterations and turning the recipe into something unique that was truly ours, it would become the perfect first entry of our very own recipe book.  I wonder how long it will take us to fill it up. Will I have grandkids someday to teach these recipes to? What other changes will I make by then? What will home be?