My Aunt Dorothy would have been the first to tell you that she wasn’t a cook. It’s what she told me when I asked her to describe the Slovenian recipes I remember her preparing when I was growing up.
But that can’t be right. I know this because, in a long-ago kitchen inside my mind, I can see myself sitting at a speckled Formica table spooning up a fragrant elixir so powerful it could transform even the bleakest day into something good and true.
“What about soup?” I ask my aunt one late-winter morning, when snowdrifts are piled like icy mountains against the windows of her Ohio living room.
“Oh, well, soup,” she says, settling back in her recliner. “That’s not cooking. Everybody makes soup.”
I start to protest, “But they don’t. Almost nobody bothers with homemade soup anymore. Usually, it comes out of a can. Or if they really want to go gourmet, they buy it ready-made from Whole Foods.”
Aunt Dorothy doesn’t reply – she’s fallen fast asleep, a normal occurrence for her these days. Her old body, stricken with a raging infection, is failing fast. I’ve traveled from my home in California to the state where I was born, paying her what the doctors say will likely be a last visit.
My optimism is as incurable as Aunt Dorothy’s illness. My plan is to help her get well by learning to cook her favorite recipes and bringing them to her apartment at the assisted-living facility. Continue reading
Edible Legacies 