Growing up, my childhood was filled with the delightful aroma of baked goods wafting through the house. After school, the sight of freshly baked bread, cookies, or even warm peach cobbler waiting on the counter would fill me with joy. My mother, a talented baker, inherited her skills from generations of women in our family. She never forced us to eat her creations, yet the happiness they brought was undeniable.
I couldn’t wait to start baking myself, and my journey began in kindergarten when I made my first batch of no-bake cookies. I vividly recall stirring together oats, chocolate, and butter, eagerly anticipating the moment I could taste my creation. My mother allowed me a couple of cookies, but I couldn’t resist sneaking a few more. That moment felt like love, and ever since, baking has been my outlet for stress and a way to express affection.
As I grew older, I continued to pour the love I had experienced into every dish I created, hoping others could taste that same warmth. However, when my parents divorced, and our family transitioned from a spacious farmhouse to a smaller home in town, my mother’s baking diminished. She was now a single mom to four kids, and understandably, something had to give. I missed her sweet treats deeply and often found myself daydreaming about the comforts of her baked goods during long algebra classes.
I realized that my cravings were less about sweets and more about the comfort they represented. The days when I’d come home to find a fresh apple crisp or holiday cookies felt like a warm embrace. Each bite was a reminder of happier, simpler times—filled with joy, not the weight of confusion that lay ahead. I started to associate those emotions with food, thinking they were intertwined.
As my life took a different turn, I found myself in a home void of those comforting treats. Ironically, I began denying myself the pleasure of comfort foods, believing that by doing so, I could gain control over a situation that felt overwhelming. I mistakenly thought that by refraining from indulging, I could somehow reclaim the joy of my past.
After becoming a parent, I found myself pushing food onto my children as a way to express my love. I felt compelled to have something delicious waiting for them after school, hoping to recreate that sense of comfort I once felt. I believed that through food, I could ensure they felt the same joy I did as a child. But the truth is, my kids don’t share the same nostalgia for cookies or cakes. They know I love them through my presence and support, not through baked treats.
It’s crucial for me to realize that love cannot be measured by the number of cookies I bake or the frequency of pancake breakfasts. Love exists in meaningful conversations, shared experiences, and time spent together. I need to shift my focus from the kitchen to creating lasting memories with my children, rather than relying on sugary indulgences.
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Summary:
In reflecting on my past, I’ve come to understand that my tendency to express love through food may not be the best approach for my children. While baking has been a source of joy for me, it’s important to recognize that love is more about presence and shared experiences rather than just delicious treats.