Fabric of Our Hearts

It is a fact; holidays are made or broken if the proper accoutrements are not present and accounted for on the dining table.  People will come and go, but heaven forbid if the “right” cranberry sauces, perfectly mashed potatoes with non-lumpy gravy, freshly baked squooshy rolls or 14 types of cookies aren’t part of the feast.            It can be as small as a chocolate covered cherry, but if a food item that you are craving, expecting and already can taste isn’t to be had, there will be hell to pay.

Memories are conjured when we smell a smell or taste a taste, even if the morsel in question hasn’t passed our lips in decades.  When we have to be away from our family for the holidays, the next best thing is to try and recreate the memory.  Good luck.  Less the fact that Uncle Lou and Aunt Millie won’t be coming and bringing their green Jello specialty thing (the jury is still out to exactly what it is, but it wouldn’t be the holidays without it), there won’t be the brother who can regress you back to childhood quicker than a pogo stick or a favorite cousin who is an ally when it comes to imbibing in the spirits and making “duck lips” with Pringle potato chips (yes, even at my extended age), the spirit of the season can be maintained.  Might even be a good excuse to start a few of my own family’s traditions.

But, not so fast, I am willing to forego the hustle and bustle of flying 2000 miles on the busiest travel days of the year to embrace my heritage, my loved ones and the gastronomic delights of my memory, but there are some things I am going to hold fast to and will have to make on my own to get me in the spirit: dessert.  Yes, dessert.  It wouldn’t be the same without my little creamy, crunchy, crispy friends.  I bake probably 300 out of 365 days, but beginning today recipes that are only used this time of year are pulled out, ingredients readied and the season may officially begin.

One recipe stands tall, a special indulgence that was handed down from my mom and can make my mouth water just when I think of them.  Being from Ohio, this tasty tidbit of a treat comes to me honestly… they are called Buckeyes.  Not the type that play football for Ohio State or the ones that grow on trees, the kind that will satiate your senses.

Food is the fabric of who we are and where we come from.  We wouldn’t be who we are without the memories and the stories that always seem to surround the holidays and the family with whom we share the victuals.  Hope your baking and holiday seasons are good ones.

Cynthia A. McClelland, curious observer of the obvious with interpretations of the oddities of daily life.  Mother, wife and lover of the furry, resides in the north Lake Tahoe area.

Cynthia A. McClelland © 2003-