My grandma never measured anything. And I thought it was pure magic — she was magic. Because it all turned out. Her kitchen was filled with Bohemian treats — treats that I’m still not sure if the names were real, or if she was just making them up as she went along as well.
The thing is, I never saw the beginning. I wasn’t there when it was just Rueben and Elsie. When the bride from the picture, wearing the necklace I now treasure, burned the dinner, or didn’t add enough flour to the baked goods, when Rueben tried to assure her it was just fine. I wasn’t there when her first born came and she had to strap him to her apron while still trying to perfect the recipe that was never written down. Maybe my mom caught a glimpse, being the second. But it wouldn’t be long and she would be asked to start taking care of the seven that followed. And certainly my mom didn’t know how to be one, she was a kid herself, but I smile thinking of her doing the same, guessing at the recipe for what would make those younger siblings happy, or at least stop crying.
No, I didn’t see any of this. I suppose none of us do, see the work behind the magic. And it’s happening all around us. But I like thinking about it. I find it hopeful. Because for me, it’s maybe even more “magical” to think it was created all along. It’s what drives me to fill the sketchbooks. To arrange the words in a different order daily. Even to bake the croissants. We create our own magic by putting in the time. Making the mistakes. Learning. And trying again.
Today I may find myself covered in life’s flour, but one way or another, it is going to be delicious. Let’s make some magic!
