Although I'm not much of a cook, I do appreciate food and the social atmosphere that's created when people eat together. Although many of us enjoy hosting dinner parties or other culinary-centered gatherings, preparing food for others is often fraught with some apprehension. This combination of great expectations and high anxiety brings about wonderful stories often passed down. Some are memories of magnificent meals served by perfect hosts, others embarrassing gaffes that become beloved family or collective lore. Many simply offer a snapshot of times gone by and provide a peek into what makes families and friendships work and how our social fabric is woven. Shared stories of childhood meals help us remember our roots and the people who loved us first.
In thinking about this notion, I was reminded of my mother (who also wasn't much of a cook) and her cornbread. It wasn't a memory of either a majestic culinary feat or an epic fail. It was just a remembrance of my mother standing in our kitchen and heating up the black iron skillet to make her non-Southern, specifically Southwestern cornbread. And I could almost see her and hear her voice telling us it was "purt near" time to eat. Because of that memory, I named this blog My Mother's Cornbread in honor of everyone's mother and grandmother and grandfather and father and brother and sister and daughter and son and friend (or any other human designation) who shared their love and talents and time, and helped to make memories.
Help me commemorate these stories. I think you will enjoy bringing them to your frontal lobe (or cerebral cortex or whatever) as much as I did with my cornbread story, and your memories will beget others.
Let me know if you'd be interested in posting your remembrance here, along with a recipe if you have one. If writing isn't your thing, I can help you with that. I would also love to post a picture of the main characters (and/or guilty parties).
Contact me via email at firstname.lastname@example.org or on Facebook at marciamayoguiendon.