My grandmother, Zelda, passed away 12 years ago. It feels hard to imagine that it has been this long since she left us; she still feels so present.

I could smell her baking emerging from my oven last night, or maybe it was the desperate longing I feel for her immediate presence. Memories are biased, and from my recall, Bubby Zelda would always make things right. From a very young age, whenever things would feel uncertain, she could easily remedy anything. My family recounts a funny story in which as a toddler, I had managed to commit to memory her telephone number – 514-735-2971. 25 years later, the number is still etched in my mind. When my parents would argue, I would call Bubby Zelda and she would arrive by taxi to arbitrate. My grandmother was 200+ pounds of safety in which I wanted to seek refuge. When I feel most desperate, I am again 2 years old, still long for her presence.

My mother has been writing her memoirs for at least the past decade. So many memories, so little time! Her project began while my grandmother was still alive – Legacy Lunacy – she titled it. Brilliant! And how true it is – how we live, how we cope, how we relate – these are all lessons we have learned as part of a legacy (and some lunacy) from generation to generation.

In my young adulthood, I had become aware of the odor of baking that would emanate from my mother’s kitchen during times of stress. Baking, the sweetest art of nurturance, would assuage her anxiety. Baking with my mother has provided many of my fondest childhood memories. As I began my own journey of weight loss, the wafting scent of baked goods would alert me to my mother’s anxiety and to seek refuge in the safe haven of my bedroom. While my behavior was self serving toward my own goal of weight loss, I better understand my mother’s behavior as an extension of a legacy.

And so, last night, I baked. I baked in place of taking a Klonopin. I then baked under the influence of a Klonopin. I did my best to relax. I made at least 6 dozen biscotti. I cut them all by hand, and placed them back on cookie sheets to dry out. Matthew and I carefully orchestrated movements in our tiny galley kitchen – he placed homemade potato knishes on a baking sheet. I set a turkey breast in the oven to roast. I grazed on salad, and then on bread, and then on soda water. Bloated by the fluids, impatient and anxious, I began at the cookies. Everything about them felt comforting. They were still warm, and still soft – perfect for when the world can feel cold and hard.

The legacy set in place for me – one of a disordered relationship with food – is something I have come to accept like my hair color (which I dye jet black, mind you). Knowing the dangers of eating to subdue my anxiety, I quickly replaced the cookies back into the warm oven to further dry out and went into the bedroom to restrain myself. About an hour later, the smell of burning filled the apartment and I realized that I had not in fact turned the over off after the turkey breast was done. At least 6 dozen charred biscotti – and thank goodness!

In the kitchen, I am a maternal force like the women before me. I like to nurture, to share, and to never follow a recipe. In life, despite never following a recipe, I have followed the very same one that was set out by my mother and her mother; the legacy. When the world feels vicious, make something delicious!  I may have burned the biscotti, but never the bridges to who I am and where I come from… and none of that ever came from a cookie!

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written by Kanika, December 21, 2007

Way to go E! It's almost like deja vu. For some strange reason, I knew you were baking!

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written by Hannah, December 21, 2007

It made me cry. That is the best compliment......to touch someoe! love you

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written by HENRY, December 21, 2007

BURNT BISCOTTI IS STILL STUCK IN MY THROAT.WELL WRITTEN.LOVE YOU.HR