“Here, you take it. You
and the girls will get more use out of it than me,” my sister said as she
thrust the big yellow mixing bowl in my direction. My hands automatically
reached out to grab hold.
Her gesture was unexpected, as the
draft-lottery method my three sisters and I had used to choose the items we
would take from our parents’ home was as fair as we could make it. And, I had
thought, final.
But there she was, giving me the old
kitchen bowl that all four of us had cherished. What magic had this bowl worked
on my sister that she would give up such a treasure?
At first glance, it appears to be an
ordinary mixing bowl, the kind you would find in your mom’s or grandma’s kitchen.
It is both old and old-fashioned. I can’t remember a time when we didn’t have this
bowl, nor can my sisters. If my mom got it at the beginning of her marriage,
the bowl would be sixty-five years old now. It’s Pyrex. Bright yellow, with a
white, opaque interior. For the longest time, it was the largest mixing bowl I’d
ever seen. And despite its age, it’s pristine. No scratches mar the yellow surface,
no chips break up the smoothness of the rim.
Sixty-five years old and perfect,
despite some rough use. While it’s true it has never seen the inside of a
dishwasher, four children and three grandchildren have learned to bake using
this bowl. Like most children, we weren’t always careful. The bowl has been
packed up and moved from house to house too many times to count, as my parents moved
frequently over the years. No special care or handling is responsible for its
excellent condition. It’s more magic.
However, the real magic of the bowl was
the way it elevated our baking skills. My three sisters and I, along with our
offspring, all inherited the mediocre-chef gene from our mother. Our mom never
met a piece of meat she couldn’t overcook or a salad she couldn’t jelly. To be
fair, growing up on the prairies during the depression, when food quality was
not as controlled as it is now and recalls of unsafe food were non-existent,
meant my mom’s strategy of overcooking was often the safest way to go. And as
she continued to cook in the 1960s and 1970s, with the time’s overreliance on adding
condensed soup or prepared salad dressing to dishes, she couldn’t help but
produce some unappetizing meals.
Or: “You’ll know when you have whipped
enough. The batter will change colour.”
And: “Taste and correct.”
When I began to teach my daughters to
bake, I copied my mom’s methods. Instructing them on the basics, and explaining
where and why one might have to diverge from a recipe. Over time my girls learned
it all, and our conversations while baking changed. Some parents say they have
the best conversations with their children in the car. Uninterrupted time and
not having to look directly at each other can lead to all sorts of revelations.
But for us, it was the kitchen and the baking process that opened the
floodgates.
Some of the conversations were heart wrenching.
Like the time my youngest
was in Grade 9 and a mean girl targeted her. The first I heard of it was while
we were baking chocolate chip cookies.
“Mom, she accused me of taking her
idea. But it was my idea!” This incident
would snowball and the school administration would become involved. It would
change the dynamics of the girls in the grade, most of whom had been part of a cohesive
group since elementary school. And it would change my daughter forever,
resulting in a loss of her child-like innocence but also freeing her from the
group-think mentality of high school, and allowing her to go her own way and find
her path.
At other times, my girls would wait
until we were baking to tell me of great news, like my older daughter’s first
scholarship offer from a top ten U.S law school. Or my younger girl’s artwork
being chosen for the school show.
Sometimes, we would have more general
conversations about their hopes for the future, how a good relationship works,
or the perfect place to live.
One day one of my daughters will take
this bowl for her own kitchen. Her sister will visit, and they will make the
blondies, birthday cakes, and Christmas cookies that we all baked together when
they were growing up. The same treats my sisters and I baked with our mom when
were young. They’ll talk, about their childhood, about me, and about their grandma.
They’ll teach their own children how to bake, passing along the memories as
well as the recipes. And their children will open up to them, as they did to
me.
On second thought, this is the real
magic of the big yellow bowl.
***
Paula MacDonald is determined to find the time to follow
her passion of writing. Former careers include financial analyst (not
recommended) and local public library worker (five stars). She lives in
Oakville in what was an entirely adequate house that literally became too small
overnight when her oldest child moved back home, mid-pandemic. She dreams of
the day the ‘home office’ will return to its former glory as a dining room, and
excess clothing, shoes, and bins will no longer line the upstairs hallway.
See Brian Henry's schedule here, including online and in-person writing workshops, weekly writing classes, and weekend retreats in Algonquin Park, Alliston, Bolton, Barrie, Brampton, Burlington, Caledon, Collingwood, Georgetown, Georgina, Guelph, Hamilton, Jackson’s Point, Kingston, Kitchener-Waterloo, London, Midland, Mississauga, Oakville, Ottawa, Peterborough, St. Catharines, Southampton, Sudbury, Toronto, Windsor, Woodstock, Halton, Muskoka, Peel, Simcoe, York Region, the GTA, Ontario and beyond.
