Thoughts on Belonging: Cooking with Mom

My [Elisabeth's] earliest memories are of being in the kitchen with my mother. They’re some of the best and sweetest memories I have. To understand, though, you first need to know a bit about my mother, Sue.

My mother was raised in the Blue Ridge mountains of Georgia and was one of eight children. Her mother was a homemaker, and her father was an “entrepreneur” of sorts, often on the wrong side of the law and separated from his family for long stretches of time. Raised as a mountain girl, I’m not sure how she managed to maintain her sweetly naive outlook on the world. To this day, she believes the best about others, and she has an incredibly deep compassion and level of empathy for everyone. She makes an impression wherever she goes, always a good one. I couldn’t tell you the number of times people have told me, “I just love your mom! She’s so sweet!”

She met my father in high school, and they got married soon after she graduated. Without doubt, God designed her for motherhood. She was a mother at twenty-one, and by the age of thirty-two, she had four children, two boys and two girls, the third being me. She always treated each of us as individuals, connecting with us for various reasons, yet she never showed favoritism. She would throw baseball in the front yard with my younger brother and also play catch with my older brother and his trusted dog, Mickey.

The kitchen was where she and I spent a lot of our time. Watching her cook was magical. Everything she made was delicious, and everything was served hot, all at the same time! She would place me on a stool and let me cut out the biscuits, long before I could manage the pastry cutter or pat out the dough by myself. She taught me to rinse the dishes as she washed them, helping me stack them so they wouldn’t shift or fall. The first dessert she taught me to make was peach cobbler, and once I could make it on my own, I did so on many a Sunday afternoon. I always thought she was beautiful as she cooked, the heat causing her hair to curl on the ends. She took a special delight in feeding her family.

The tasks and recipes weren’t what I enjoyed most, it was the time with her. In the kitchen was where I often got her to myself, selfish as that may sound. She made me feel special and smart and so very loved, with her constant hugs and I love you’s. And though I’m sure I was often a hindrance, the kitchen is the first place I felt helpful, like I contributed to the family.

By the age of ten, I could make biscuits by myself, and that felt like a huge accomplishment. To this day, biscuits are still one of my favorite foods to make. During the school year, when the weekend hits, I often make biscuits for breakfast, and I always think of my mother. A hot biscuit with a dab of butter and honey is made better only by sitting at mom’s table.

I was (and still am) her little girl, her sidekick, her helper. Those times and those experiences not only fed my body but also fed my mind and established a part of my identity. The kitchen is the place I’m comfortable, and like my mother, cooking for others is often how I show my love. The memories I have with her grow more precious as I get older, the memory of time with her but more importantly of belonging with her.