The aroma of the pie baking in the oven mingled with the scent of pine and damp earth wafting in through the open windows. It was a sensory overload that brought tears to my eyes. As we sat down to dinner, the table set with love and care, I couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed with gratitude for the moments we were sharing. It was a simple meal, but it was rich in history and tradition.
After dinner, as we cleared the table and washed dishes together, I found myself reaching for a cookbook to jot down the day’s events. I opened the well-loved pages of “My Kitchen Year” and added a note about our Thanksgiving feast, the laughter, and the love that filled our home that day. It felt like a way to immortalize the memories, to capture the essence of that moment in time.
As I sat back and watched my family gather around the fire, the glow of the flames casting a warm light on their faces, I felt a deep sense of contentment. In that moment, surrounded by love and good food, I knew that these were the memories I would cherish forever. And as I closed the cookbook, tucking it back into its place on the shelf, I couldn’t help but smile at the thought of all the memories it held within its pages.
Cookbooks are more than just collections of recipes; they are time capsules, filled with moments and memories that come alive with each turn of the page. They are reminders of the past and guides for the future, offering comfort and inspiration in equal measure. And as I continue to add notes and mementos to my ever-growing collection of cookbooks, I know that I am creating a legacy that will be passed down for generations to come. In the end, it’s not just the recipes that matter, but the stories they hold and the memories they preserve. It was a reflex to look it up and as I did, a postcard fell from the pages and skittered across the kitchen floor. Even before I picked it up, I knew it was from my dad. We all did; we could see his loopy handwriting and signature smiley face scrawled across the surface. It was a thank-you note he had penned and mailed to me in 2018 just a few days before his heart suddenly stopped. The photo on the back of the postcard: the Ozarks in full autumn bloom. He had chosen it, he wrote, because the rainbow of colors reminded him of the plaid shirt I had given him. We stared at it, at each other, tears rushing our eyes. This was more than a coincidence. In this special place that felt so profoundly of him, we received a divine hug and gesture, a true thanksgiving.
My sister suggested I frame the postcard and hang it at the lake. Instead, we left it propped up on the counter for the rest of the day—a reminder of who was missing and the family unit we once were. But the next day, I randomly tucked the memento back between the pages, knowing that someday I’d stumble upon it, and this new, beautiful memory, once again.
As I held the postcard in my hands, memories flooded back—memories of hiking in the Ozarks with my dad, the smell of autumn leaves, and the sound of his laughter. It was a bittersweet moment, but also a reminder of the love and connection that never truly fades away. The postcard may have fallen from the pages, but it had brought my dad back to me in a way that was both unexpected and comforting.
I realized then that some things are meant to be found when we least expect them. The postcard was a message from my dad, a reminder that he was still with us in spirit, watching over us and sending his love. And as I placed the postcard back between the pages, I knew that whenever I needed to feel close to him, all I had to do was open that book and let his words and his love wash over me once again.
