I opened up the worn, yellow tin the other day and flipped through the recipes and memories it contained. I remembered so many of the delicacies that these instructions and words produced. Dishes that I haven't had in years but yet I will never forget the taste of. The salsa she would can every year, the fried chicken that was a family favorite, the pizza sauce that was just loaded with taste, and all the unhealthy ones too.
The memories linger so near and dear to my heart. After losing my Mom a couple years ago, I cling to the small things that can invoke the biggest memories. It's not the tin in and of itself, it's the feeling it brings to my heard and mind when I look back. Time spent at the dinner table was truly a highlight of the day. I don't remember her ever rushing us to get through it so she could go get things done, though I know she had plenty to do after working all day to support us as a single mother. We talked so much at that old wooden table. There were so much laughter and the liveliest discussions. I honestly don't know how she did it all or where she found the time, but because of her love of canning away the goodness that came from our garden I now have a deep love for it as well.
This tin, yellow, and old, and with a smidge of rust, it might not be the prettiest, it might not be what's currently aesthetic, but it's beautiful to me because of the warmth it ignites in my heart and I'll take that over perfection anyday. It currently has a place of honor on my countertop and I can't help but smile everytime I look at it. In some small way it make me feel as if she isn't that very far away.