There's no use crying over spilt perfume.
Is there a use for crying in your cornbread?
Last week we had a cold spell (in Wyoming? Shocking ...) so I decided to whip up a batch of veggie chili and cornbread.
Here is where the story gets long. See my mom used to make this killer cornbread. It was sweet and cake-like and incredibly moist. I had the recipe--flour, cornmeal, eggs, oil, sour cream, honey (did I mention it was delicious and that almost always means UNHEALTHY?).
Unfortunately about 5 years ago I decided that Krustez cornbread mix was every bit as good as my mom's recipe (one of the few times I've been wrong) and so much easier. Let's face it, it takes a long time to measure a cup of flour. Or maybe I'm just lazy.
Anyhow, lately I've just gotten really
I go to the recipe box and look under "breads and muffins." It's not there. It wasn't under appetizers, beef, poultry, fish, brunch, soups, salads ... it was no where. The recipe is gone. Gone as in I looked at every recipe in my recipe box for an hour gone. Gone.
I was a bit choked up but I put on my big girl panties, googled a recipe, and whipped up a batch of cornbread. As I stirred the mixture together it happened. Big, fat crocodile tears started running down my face and into my cornbread ingredients.
Because it was my mom's recipe.
Because it was written in her handwriting.
Because I can't ask her to write it down for me again.
It was this hideous reminder--days before Easter--that she is gone and that I'll never taste her cornbread again.
What I think is that sometimes something as small as a missing recipe makes her death real again. It shocks me like a bucket of ice water over my head--drenching my strength, leaving me gulping for air, and fighting back tears. As I stood there crying in my cornbread, I was reminded that grief is a long process.
I miss my mom's cornbread but really, I just miss my mom.
Thanks, Shell for letting me Pour My Heart Out (into my cornbread) on your blog.