Love You, Miss You, See You Soon

One of my students used to bring a homemade, chocolate chip cookie to school in his lunch box every day. A shy, happy smile would spread across his face whenever anyone asked if his mom had made his cookies. She had. He LOVED his mom. And everyday at lunchtime when he pulled that chocolate chip cookie out of his lunchbox, he was reminded that she loved him, too.

The other day I was chopping walnuts for banana bread. My son had repeatedly requested it and our bananas had been neglected long enough to turn brown. Though it’s been over a decade since that student has been mine, the memory of his daily lunch cookie popped into my head as my knife hit the cutting board. Man, I thought, that cookie was a commitment. And then I wondered about the process of making those cookies. Did his mother make them every Sunday for the week? Refrigerate or freeze the dough and bake a few at a time? Did her head ever hit the pillow at night only for her eyes to flash open in remembrance – the cookies! – causing her to set her alarm extra early for the next morning? Perhaps I’m romanticizing the memory of this lunchbox cookie and there were days, even many days, without one. But not that I can remember. That cookie in the middle of his school day was predictable and comforting and joyous. It was “I love you” and “I miss you” and “I’ll see you soon”.

At some point in the early days of my apartment living after college (maybe for Christmas that first year after graduation?) my mom gifted me a photo album. It contained index cards with favorite handwritten recipes intermingled with cooking themed photographs of myself at various ages with family and friends. The card that has gotten the most use is Mom’s banana bread recipe. It is dog-eared, oil stained, and just the slightest bit gritty. The red and blue lines on the card have run in places, lasting evidence of water drops from freshly washed hands after the eggs have been cracked and the card is picked up to confirm the next step. Banana bread is the obvious answer to two or more spotted bananas starting to loosen from their peels. It has also proven to be the remedy for a gloomy day, a cranky child, and missing the feel of home. Banana bread is “I love you” and “I miss you” and “I’ll see you soon”.

Initially I followed Mom’s recipe to a T. The bread was baked in the extra Pfaltzgraf Yorktowne loaf dish she had handed down to me, cracked but able to get the job done. Familiar and comforting. Over the years the cracks in Mom’s dish deepened, rendering it unusable. In addition, I have needed to tweak the ingredients of her recipe just a bit. My boys will have memories of a set of blue Bennington Pottery dishes resulting in a slightly different loaf shape than their Nana’s Pfaltzgraf, which is still nestled inside the lower kitchen cabinet because I can’t quite bring myself to get rid of it even though it is no longer safe to use. I hope my boys feel my “I love you” in the baking of banana bread for them. I hope that when they are in their first apartments and houses they find comfort in making banana bread. Not only when they are sick of staring at the overripe bananas on their kitchen counters, but also when they feel the need to quell a gloomy day, a feeling of missing home, and maybe eventually, a cranky child. I hope they pull out a familiar loaf dish from their lower kitchen cabinet and think of me in the process. I love you. I miss you. I’ll see you soon.

Last week, Mom and I discussed the idea of she and my dad coming down for a visit. At the beginning of April it hadn’t felt out of the ordinary to not have seen my parents. As the weeks stretch on it feels long. Too long. Typically our one hour and fifteen minute drive makes for a comfortable day trip. Given the current social distancing guidelines and potential health risks a visit just didn’t seem like a good idea, logistically or emotionally. It was the right, responsible choice, at least for now. And it was hard. Feeling defeated by the weight of responsible choices is a good time to have brown bananas in the kitchen. 

“What are you eating?” I heard my mom ask as the boys sat at the table chatting with her over FaceTime. “Banana bread!” they announced. Sometimes my oldest and my mom share the heel slice of a fresh loaf of bread. That day there was one hour and fifteen minutes of Berkshire hills between them, so my big guy had the entirety of the heel on his plate. Maybe, hopefully, the next time we make banana bread he will be able to share the heel with his Nana. Thank you, Mom, for the promise of banana bread. We love you, we miss you, and we will see you soon.