Sadie Gugliotta

Family Recipes
Sadie Gugliotta

My hand cradles a wooden spoon, its soft grain like a salve against my skin, as I stand over the coated blue dutch oven. I watch the verdant skins of broccoli, spinach, and zucchini become plump and ripen with flavor, mind clouded by a proud delirium that feeds on sauce and crushed garlic. My mother stands beside me, intently reading the recipe with a sense of ease. Her hair, faded and streaked blond, falls across her face. She moves with buoyancy and operates with gentle intention, hands expertly wielding a paring knife, dissecting tomatoes with an accuracy and skill that enraptures me. 

I have gained a lot from my mother, most of which I have realized alongside the revelation of my own maturity. She is a force - powerful, intelligent, fierce in a quiet, yet uncompromising way, gracious but always poised to laugh. Though constantly finding and resettling its place, a shared understanding with my mother is resonant within my bones. I recognize certain traits in her that I have subconsciously claimed as my own, my identity molded and shaped by our relationship; and just as my nana did before her, she passes on to me her knowledge and wisdom with a patience that confounds me, especially in the kitchen. 

Accentuated when my mother cooks is her self-possession. Orienting herself over the stove, she gathers salt, cumin, and pepper flakes, crested in the curved platform of her palm. Like the Ina Garten devotee she is, my mother maneuvers through the kitchen with a calm levity that comes from the fluidity of cooking, relegated to no bounds of self doubt or pretension. A dim bronze light emanates from the fixtures above our heads, and I observe her alongside me, stirring the vegetables in the pot with familiar repetition. Her face softens, and she settles into herself, assuaged by the aroma of olive oil and spice. Her smile, broad and wide-lipped, overtakes every feature of her face,  a large, waxing enthusiasm. I learned this from her, and glimpse the same smile dimpling my cheeks in unpracticed moments of delight.  Nor does my mother stifle her laughter; she throws her head back and releases an echoing celebration of life. It inflates her chest and radiates mellifluous rapture that carries itself throughout the house.

The thin papers of family recipes curl and discolor, worn from age and overuse. Much like our relationship, these parcels are not impervious to time, but are precious in their singularity, forever bound in our family’s history - inextricably. Thin loops of inky cursive embroider their pages, holding more than abstract instructions on the fare of our lineage; they are vessels of connection, of lessons: in love, in laughter, in food.


Author's Note: I love writing because it is a form of art that connects people and sparks conversation, allowing room for a diverse range of voices and perspectives. It is a space in which I can express my thoughts freely in a flexible and unending format, encouraging growth and creativity. I wrote this piece for an English assignment in which we had to examine traits inherited from a relative. I chose to write about my mom and our shared love of cooking, because it is such an integral part of our relationship and helped me to learn more about myself, my mother, and our family's heritage.