Rosemary

 I learned many things from Lynne Ford when I worked with her, and one of them is that rosemary is for remembrance. Lynne loved (and I presume that hasn’t changed) the fragrant herb and always tucked a sprig of it inside cards when she sent them. I have dried rosemary stems in the cards she gave me – from the beginning to the end of my time working with her.

                I don’t know that I’d ever inhaled the (indeed, memorable) aroma of rosemary prior to meeting Lynne, but I sure love it now, and I love it that it always reminds me of her. I remember how she taught me it’s for remembrance, and I remember all the other things she taught me, too.

                Years before I was born, my grandparents worked at a bakery called The Rosemary. It closed before my time, and I have lived all my life hearing the stories of life at The Rosemary.

                I’ve always been sad that I never had the chance to experience the deliciousness of the beloved recipes, carefully crafted and sold to the Rosemary customers. I’ve always been sad that they didn’t write a cookbook so those of us who came along too late to appreciate the bakery could have attempted to recreate the goodness.

                I may not have had the chance to eat from the Rosemary’s menu, but I did eat at my grandparents’ table – many times – and experienced the goodness of their culinary talents.

                I remember that.

                It’s my rosemary.

                I remember the cakes and rolls, the chocolate candies and macaroni and cheese. I remember the cups of coffee (though I was too little to participate) an buttered toast for breakfast.

                As I continue to build our recipe box, I love the memories attached to the stories surrounding the recipes we love.

                They are my rosemary.

                Last night I made sloppy joes, and I remembered the evening Ryan and I ate sloppy joes with my parents and he told me after dinner that he thought the joes were extra tasty and wondered what Mom’s secret was. It turned out that she didn’t even have a written recipe for them, but she tried to write down how she made them, and I used her recipe for years. I’ve swapped some of the ingredients now to make it healthier, but the story of the sloppy joes always takes me back to that meal we shared with Mom and Dad after Ryan completed some random project for them.

                So I write the stories of the recipes. I search for the perfect way to make the dishes we love the most so it’s both tasty and healthy.

                These recipes are my rosemary.