I always marveled at how she just threw things in with such confidence. Never following a recipe. She seemed like a “Kitchen Super Hero” as I stood next to her, apron high, trying to work my way up to timid, at best. 

They called me shy. I like to think that I was just taking it all in. And there was so much to take in, there in my Grandma Elsie’s kitchen. I cupped one chubby hand to her chubby knee, and I watched. 

It was a dance really. From cupboard to table to stove to table again. I kept time as best I could. Losing my face in her apron, giggling behind the flower-print pocket, the pocket that was never without a Kleenex. I couldn’t learn the cups or tablespoons, so I focused on the dance. And just like the song played, I could have done this all night.

I started baking when I came to France. The language was such a surprise, I had forgotten about the measurements. What were these liters and grams? Celsius? There was nothing left to do but dance. I Elsied my way through. Tossing and twirling. And with the help of a lot of French butter, I must admit, it’s delicious!

Someone has always made a path. Maybe not in stone or pavement, but certainly in heart and spirit. The gifts we are given, just like an Elsie recipe, are immeasurable.