(Published in The Globe & Mail)

I want my son or daughter to know the taste of cake made from scratch, and meals that don’t come out of a package. I want him or her to be able to recognize the hum of the Mixmaster, and the sound of clanking measuring spoons against a mixing bowl. I blame my mother’s tattered recipe books for this sudden surge of sentimentality for things domestic.

By Christina Friedrichsen

I’ve never made a cake from scratch.  Never made homemade bread, cheesecake, chocolate chip cookies or Rice Krispie squares. But suddenly, at the age of 31, I find myself aching to get the Mixmaster that I inherited from my mother out of the cupboard and onto the countertop for its inaugural whirl in my kitchen. I long to breathe the comforting aroma of flour, butter and brown sugar churning through its silver beaters, and taste the warm, delicious fruits, er cookies, of its labor. 

Lately, I’ve become increasingly nostalgic for the days of my childhood, when the kitchen was cozy with oven heat, and mom had flour on her apron. Now that I’m pregnant with my first child, I realize that I want some of that in our home. I want my son or daughter to know the taste of cake made from scratch, and meals that don’t come out of a package. I want him or her to be able to recognize the hum of the Mixmaster, and the sound of clanking measuring spoons against a mixing bowl.

I blame my mother’s tattered recipe books for this sudden surge of sentimentality for things domestic.

I’ve spent the past several days copying her most cherished recipes into my own recipe book. (My mother was hesitant to leave them with me, fearing they’d be forever lost in the ever-curious jaws of our border collie, but I assured her I would guard them with my life.) And although the process is time-consuming, I’ve loved every minute of it.

I love the way the recipes reveal the wear and tear of years of use. Some are yellowed and stained (with butter or shortening I presume). Others are ripped around the edges and difficult to read. Many of them are handwritten – either by my mother or other dear relatives – some of whom have passed away. When I hold these fragile pieces of the past in my hands, I feel a connection with the nurturing spirits who passed them on. And I feel compelled to keep their most beloved concoctions alive in my kitchen.

As I read my grandmother’s recipe for Frikadeller (Danish meatballs), I conjure up an image of her in her tidy kitchen, wearing her yellow satin dress beneath a white apron. There’s a hairnet scooping up her dark hair, and she smells lemony like 4711. She’s having members of the church (she was a minister’s wife) over in the afternoon, and she’s making sure there are plenty of fresh desserts on the teacart to go along with the pot of strong European coffee. 

Then there’s aunt Martha. Although I can’t recall ever sampling her made-from-scratch almond fingers, (I was too young) I am reminded of her sweetness, her generosity and her kind face as I read the hand-typed recipe. I imagine her in her later years, moving slowly through the kitchen, making sugary treats for my family to devour.

But my favourite recipes of all come from my mother. The comforting stick-to-your-ribs heaviness of her beef stew. The summery satisfaction of her potato salad. The cool, creamy sweetness of banana cooler. They all bring me back to my childhood –  to a house full of family. They take me back to the kitchen table of my youth, which was vibrant with conversation and warm with steaming help-yourself platters of homemade food. 

As I walk along the frozen food aisles in the grocery store, I can’t help but feel sorry for the kids growing up today.  Many of them will only know meals made in a factory – not by loving hands. Many won’t experience the sheer bliss of licking the beaters from a batch of truly homemade peanut butter cookies, or feel the sweet stickiness left behind on their fingers from caramel corn that is still warm.

But I don’t really blame parents for not wanting to don aprons after a long day of work – especially when aisle after grocery store aisle of pretty, processed foods promise them less time in the kitchen, and more time in front of the TV; the computer; in bed.  I don’t blame them for succumbing to the temptation of these attractive little packages. It’s just that I don’t want to become one of these parents.

I want my kid to know food made from scratch. I know this will be one of the many challenges I will face as a parent – especially given the fact that I have the culinary experience of a 12-year old.

But I am aching to learn – and I’ve got an enthusiastic husband on my side. He’s got about as much cooking experience as I do, but he declared war on processed food months ago and he’s ready to dig in and give it a go. In fact, we’ve both been talking about changing our cooking habits for quite some time. We want to make cooking from scratch part of our lifestyle. Finally, we have the incentive to do it.

As I sit here, sifting through my mother’s recipes, I can only hope that our excitement in wanting to bring these dear old recipes to life will grow with each successful meal, and that our child will not only be fond of them, when the time comes for him to leave home, he’ll be begging to borrow that tattered old recipe book of his mother’s.