Like many, I learned my cooking style and philosophy from my mother. She insisted that we sit down to dinner together every night. I’m sad to admit that, as a teen, I rejected learning to cook because I associated it with being a “traditional” wife and mother. Back then, I imagined my future self as a career woman.
It took me a long time to understand that life is far more complex than I imagined. I didn’t have to fit into anyone’s mold. I could make my own. So, I had to teach myself to cook. And I didn’t truly understand until recently just how much my mother’s cooking had influenced my own.
Not long ago, I had a discussion with my mother and discovered that she, too, carved her own path when it came to cooking. My grandmother didn’t want her, or anyone, in her kitchen. It was her domain, and she wanted no distractions.
Instead, my mother learned the basics from my Nana (my dad’s mom). She found new recipes in magazines. She took cooking classes. This helped her learn techniques and explore dishes from various cultures.
My mother, like me, got her adventurous cooking style from her mom. Even though neither of us learned to cook directly from our mothers, we were deeply influenced by them all the same.
We both love to learn and try new things. As adults, we share our discoveries with our mothers.
Through food, we share family stories and strengthen connections.
When I began this blog, I called my mother to ask questions and make sure my memories were accurate. I already knew about my grandfather’s “Victory Garden,” but I learned even more.
The garden, it turns out, was enormous; it helped their family meet their food needs during WWII. My mother described rows of green beans, lima beans, tomatoes, cabbage, beets, onions, and potatoes.
There were shelves upon shelves of canned vegetables to get them through the winter. The garden even helped feed the neighbors, and apparently a few rabbits. One boy in the neighborhood was allowed to keep his rabbit cages at the garden’s edge.
Family lore has long included her fear of pressure cookers and gas ranges. These fears came from a few dramatic moments in the kitchen.
We talked about her memory of my aunt’s pressure cooker exploding. Food flew everywhere – even onto the ceiling.
We also spoke of the morning my grandmother caught her bathrobe on fire while cooking on a gas range.
That conversation brought back my own food memories.
I still hear my dad teasing my mom about the special dessert (chocolate mousse) she made, calling it pudding.
I remember the year my dad planted a row of zucchini in his garden, not realizing just how much one plant can produce. I can picture all the different dishes my mom made with that zucchini, from bread to casserole. My parents laughed about how their neighbors eventually started running the other way as they tried to give it away by the bushel.
And I think about my own kitchen. The girls were small when they helped me to make pizza; rolling out the dough, and getting sauce everywhere. As the girls got older, they learned how to make chocolate chip cookies. Eventually they insisted on doing it themselves.
My impulse, especially when they were small, was to keep them out of the kitchen. Anyone who has cooked with little ones knows how much more “interesting” it can get when they try to help. But I tried to resist that impulse. I wanted them to feel welcome in the kitchen, and I still do.
Those stories remind me that food has always been about more than recipes. It’s about resilience, resourcefulness, and connection.
My mother and her mother cooked to nourish, to care, and bring comfort to the middle of busy, unpredictable lives.
That’s still what guides me in the kitchen today. Whether I’m putting dinner on the table after a long day or testing a new recipe to share here, I carry the spirit of connection with me – real food for real life, made with love and creativity. If we end up with a new family story, even better.
Each generation adds new stories, helping to provide a sense of connection across time. For both my mother and me, food carries memories, and I want to make sure my daughters have those memories, too.
Now, life has come full circle. I’m creating a recipe blog. My mother and her friends once created and published a cookbook: West of the Rockies: Recipes from Campfire to Candlelight.
Food is the thread that strengthens our connections through conversations at the table and our stories. Simple meals anchor us to each other and to where we come from.
My mother’s influence shows me that “real food for real life” isn’t about being perfect or sticking to tradition. It’s about nourishment, love, and the joy of coming together at the table.
Every dinner, whether simple or special, brings family and memories together, one recipe at a time.
As I write and cook today, I see I’m still adding to that story. Each meal, each shared memory, and each connection builds it up.
