Ways We’ll Be Remembered and Other Delicious Thoughts

This past spring, I finally made a perfect hard boiled egg.  I used to have a good method, and then somewhere down the road, I just got inconsistent about it to the point that whenever I’d make them, I knew that they’d either be mildly acceptable or, well, they’d suck eggs.  In my volunteering endeavors, there have been brunches where I’ve set out hard boiled eggs only to see that tell-tale, sulfuric circle that announces the egg’s been overcooked, and on the other extreme, one year, horror, of horrors, I watched a friend open the egg I’d slipped in her lunch bag and then I wanted to hide under a rock when the contents were runny in a way that only looks great in the kinds of eggs that come from our friends at Cadbury.  

You’re probably asking yourself why the fact that I mastered the egg even matters.   It’s not like I developed a solution to world hunger or even settled the age-old debate about whether the chicken or its shell-tter was the first to make an appearance.  But I couldn’t help being excited about adding this feat to my culinary clutch. 

I know I’m not the only one who expanded her skill set in this time of staying safe at home.  When we weren’t dutifully supporting the restaurant industry through our carryouts, we were busy little chefs and bountiful bakers, and maybe a little more than usual, I tried to spread my wings in the kitchen, too.  2020 and 2021 were the years I made my first pumpkin roll and its cocoa cousin the yule log, a halfway decent gobi manchurian, and pots and pots of pickle soup, and as each new recipe joined my repertoire, I felt, if not proud, at least a little tickled by it all.  I really get a kick out of learning new things and trying new recipes, and I think in pandemic times, we all felt a bit of solidarity with that sense of culinary adventure.

I see many of us on facebook, sharing photos of these accomplishments, but often in a somewhat self-deprecating way.  In a “not that it’s that big of a deal, and since I’m doing nothing else” kind of way.  “I made a layer cake, but who cares because I’m home from work, after all.”  Or,”I crocheted this blanket, but who doesn’t have time on our hands these days”.  Many of us have learned new and tender ways to care for our families, to sweeten the meal and dazzle the decor, but we don’t tend to honor these endeavors.  At times, it even feels that embracing  the work of the home is a red flag and a betrayal to all the progress some of us have made in our efforts to escape the domestic sphere.And yet, there I was, feeling as though I’d attained rock star status over a little hard boiled egg.

When I made that perfect egg, I couldn’t help thinking of my husband’s Aunt Connie who died suddenly just before the Easter holidays.  Although she was my husband’s aunt, I started thinking of her as my aunt, too, pretty much as soon as I met her, back when Doug and I started dating in the late nineties.  She was one of those people who brought Southern hospitality all the way across the Mason-Dixon and made it a concept that was right at home in Dearborn Heights where she’d settled down with her husband of 61 years.  

Aunt Connie was the kind of person who rounded out almost every visit I had with her with something delicious.  It didn’t matter if I was just bringing my little ones to toddle in her yard for a few minutes while we chatted, she’d pull out “egg dip”, a simple and magical mash up that rested on a glass topped table in an orange Tupperware, and she’d be spreading globs of it onto buttery crackers almost as fast as the little ones could reach up for it. When we’d dodge the summer heat by gathering in her basement, we’d pour over stacks of photographs and wash  them down with plates of a dessert she’d retrieve from the fridge.  It made us feel like local celebrities to know that someone had baked something just because she knew we’d be on our way over – like our presence was a red letter occasion to be marked with the types of desserts that could make normal comfort food seem as comfortable as a pull out sofa.  

But in all honesty, the way Aunt Connie fussed all over us wasn’t reserved just for us – she made a similar big deal over all of her guests.  In my very last visit to her home, family from out of state and many of us locals gathered in her kitchen and yard, and of course there was a cake and there was no point refusing a piece.  Aunt Connie brought us together with food, and I always got the impression that her specialties were an eclectic mix of both favorites that had delighted for generations and new endeavors that were gleaned from church events, recipes passed between friends, or even experiments inspired by new trends.  One of her many love languages was food, and Aunt Connie loved on us in a way that can only be described as delightful.

When I think of Aunt Connie and some of the other elders who have had such a powerful impact on my life, I know that many of the memories we forged were centered around everything from epic events to ordinary encounters, but they were always made all the more endearing due to the presence of those tantalizing treats.  When I consider the way she opened up the lines of communication, soothed worries and increased her joy each time a cake was sliced and a plate was passed, I know that Aunt Connie brought so much more to the table than fluffy, calorie-laden confections.  She brought the kind of care that all of us crave, and she made sure that it was abundantly available.

At the end of my own life, I don’t think anyone will have much to say about my ability to make sound investments, earn an impressive salary, or even find the mates to all the socks that have lived among us for decades at a stretch.  Certainly, I have goals and ambitions for myself that extend beyond the poached, pureed, and plated, and perhaps they’ll be reached and realized, and perhaps I’ll make some enduring mark of my own.  But, when I consider Aunt Connie, I am reminded that, if I work at it, maybe somehow at the end of my days, someone  might have something to say about the cakes, the second courses,  the cooking pots that bubbled over, and  how our stories unfolded over second helpings.  It’s a pretty honorable way to be remembered.  If I’m lucky, perhaps they’ll even mention that once in a while, I made a pretty decent hard boiled egg.