My mother’s recipe for blueberry cobbler has been on our fridge for as long as I can remember. If I close my eyes I can picture her curling handwriting perfectly, the little flourish at the end of her c’s. I watched her bake that cobbler countless times, rarely measuring and almost never actually referencing the recipe.
After my mom died that cobbler recipe became even more important. A happy, easy memory that we could return to in the midst of all the grief and confusion. My sister embroidered it for myself and my brother, so we could hang it in our own kitchens. I smile every time I see it, because, just like my mother, I almost never actually look at the recipe when I’m making blueberry cobbler.