I sort through old recipes. Wedding soup from a cousin. Bracciole, from a website, but it tastes like the family recipe. And pancake soup (crepes with Romano cheese in chicken broth), which I tested once, then twice, and my daughter said I had hit upon her grandmother’s recipe.
This year, I bought Easter bread, a choice on a fundraiser sheet. The memory maker of our family recipe for that has passed on and his recipe went with him. It was in his head and not on paper. So we continue the search.
As I put meatballs in the slow cooker, the radio sings, “Oh no, You never let go.”
A flood of memories comes over me. Years of cooking in this kitchen. Years that were simple in their beauty of children dressed in Easter finery, their hands holding baskets of sweets. Years that were sad. Years that were profound. Years that He held me and never let go.
There was the yearly coloring of eggs. Now grandchildren visit for that ritual.
There was the year I planned a Passover dinner for Holy Thursday, grape juice and meat and cheese in pita bread. The next year I realized I had made the only Passover dinner EVER with ham. So that year we had turkey and cheese. I had not realized that observant Jews would no more mix meat and cheese than they would partake of ham.
The song continues. I pray for our family member abroad, that God will never let go of him.
Tonight, I will attend Easter Vigil Mass with one of my sons and his wife. Tomorrow morning, services at my own church with more of his siblings.
Then tomorrow night, a feast!
We will commune with each other to celebrate the Risen LORD. Our King who never lets go of His own.
Photo Credit: Pixabay
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