For as long as I’ve been alive, when the holidays approached, my grandmother’s home would be perfumed with the scents of vanilla, sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg and baked sweet potato pie. Everyone in the family knew to expect a pie or two from her. As a true southerner, food is a gift along with the love.
When I noticed the age of my grandmother, I knew it was time for me to watch her create her gifts and take in the aromas of those sweet potato pies. Of course there is no exact recipe. How many eggs to potato ratio, cups of sugar, flour? To make a crust or store buy? When at her Service, it came to light that I maybe the one to continue her legacy of creating these sweet treats. The pressure! In true fashion, I downplayed my capability to even take on such a role. To follow behind a 40 plus (and that’s being kind on the numbers) year tradition is nerve wrecking.
The task before me to create our holiday norm is stressing me out. Most ask how everyone is and send their condolences and I’m over here stressing about the expectations to keep traditions alive during this upcoming holiday season. Is this normal? Is this a part of grieving? Am I being selfish, worrying about something no one else is even thinking about? I don’t know. I’ve come to realize, I don’t think like the majority of people that I interact with.
With every step into the last home she resided in, I feel as if her eyes are watching our moves. It may be true since my sister hasn’t burned a biscuit since. This is a running joke between us. It’s still October, I have a few weeks to get the ingredients together. Plan out the day of baking. Hoping I make her proud.
She did say my turkey meal was pretty good, my mother told me what I could have done better. You see! Criticism! Ugh.