Author: Vivienne / Caffeinated Chaos

Have you ever had a family member that you constantly butt heads with because you’re so much alike, but at the same time love them extra for it? I’ve had a few. Most people who know me would probably expect me to say my daughter or my father. And they wouldn’t be wrong. But those stories are for another time. This story is about another woman. Man, was she feisty. She’s where I get my attitude… er um… I mean, charm from.

Some of my most cherished memories involve my grandmother and our shared love for baking. She’s the one who taught me and made me fall in love with it. When I was little, my grandparents moved to a warmer climate. We’d visit them every Easter, and they’d come back around Christmas and again in the summer. They always stayed with us. She and I would argue almost the entire time. Except in the kitchen.

In the kitchen, I’d sit on the counter and help her cook or bake. Usually bake, since I was way more into sweets than steak and potatoes at that age. And there was something magical about baking. When you cook a steak, it still looks like a steak. Spaghetti still looks like pasta, meat, and sauce. But baking? Eggs, flour, sugar… they become something completely different. Not only that, but you can use those same ingredients to make something else entirely. If that’s not magic, I don’t know what is.

I’ll never forget frosting Christmas cookies with her every year. She’d spend days baking before they even made the trip. She and my grandpa would drive, and she’d bring suitcases full of cookies, bars, and candies. It took a small army of us grandkids to decorate the cutouts. Good thing we were all willing to work for cookies.

And she didn’t stop baking once she got to our house. Not even close. There were buckeyes, pastries for Christmas morning, pies for New Year’s Day. Everything was delicious, but nothing compared to her chocolate cake. It was so rich and decadent, and the frosting? Fantastic!

I used to be the lucky one with her best recipes. The ones she’d marked up in the cookbook with her own notes and tweaks. My parents had that cookbook for years, but when they retired and decided to sell everything and live in their motorhome, the cookbook didn’t make the cut. If I’d known, I would’ve driven the three hours to rescue it.

So yeah, as much as she and I didn’t always see eye to eye, we came together in that kitchen with its orange countertops and psychedelic olefin carpet. That’s where my dreams were born.

And now I’m making chocolate cake this weekend.