Recently my dad mentioned he’d been craving my Nanny’s chocolate chip cookies.
My Nanny passed away when I was 11, so I didn’t get as many years as I wished with her. I couldn’t recall the cookies instantly, so I asked if my dad had the recipe to replicate them. He said he didn’t need it.
He explained that her recipe was simply the one on the back of a Nestle Toll House bag, just with the addition of one secret ingredient to make them special.
My Nanny added a tablespoon of water which surprisingly made all the difference. It was a small and seemingly unimportant addition, but it transformed the cookies into something uniquely hers. They were flat and crunchy, like a burnt cookie without the char and chalky taste.
The second my Dad reminded me of the ingredient, my mind flooded with memories of my Nanny, her cookies and the grief I thought I had left behind seven years ago.
I recalled playing hide-and-seek with my cousins in her home during Christmas Eve celebrations. My favorite hiding spot was always the pantry in her iconic green kitchen because I loved looking around at all of her spices, ingredients and the many cookie tins on the side shelves.
What might have seemed like an excessive amount of tins to most was completely reasonable for my Nanny, who used them to package her cookies up as gifts. My family left Christmas Eve each year with one or more of those tins, filled with the chocolate chip and butter cookies I loved.
I feared those warm memories would stop when my Nanny passed — like an essential part of my childhood would go with her. Grappling with those thoughts at such a young age was confusing, and I frequently compared my experiences with my Nanny to the ones other family members had with her. I was trying to make sense of my grief and struggling to accept some people had more time with her than I did.
After more thought, I wasn’t even sure my memories of “Nanny’s cookies” directly involved my Nanny. Instead, I remember my aunts replicating them for Christmas Eve and other holidays. I began to wonder how many memories I associate with my Nanny are from after she passed.
Much of my recollection of my Nanny was built on the celebrations and moments in her honor, like how our family continued to exchange gifts on Christmas Eve by her mini tree. Knowing that most of my memories of her occurred after her death disappointed me, but also caused me to do more introspection on how I could make up for lost time.
Although I didn’t get to make many memories with my Nanny while she was alive, I continued a relationship with her through my family’s efforts to keep her spirit present.
A reminder of my Nanny like the cookies typically made me spiral because it made me feel like I missed out on truly knowing her. With more reflection, I realized my relationship with her wasn’t limited by her lifetime and I can continue to embody her and appreciate her in the same way the rest of my family does.
My parents, aunts, uncles and cousins personify Nanny’s graciousness and attitude. My dad carries on her dry sense of humor, and my aunt maintains her feistiness. She was witty, tenacious, generous and so funny. Being told I remind someone of my Nanny is my favorite compliment.
I’ve learned to define unconditional love as a face, and it’s hers. Her legacy remains in the family photos around my house and the faces of my loved ones. Family members still recreate her special chocolate cookies, giving them a taste of nostalgia and myself a reminder of the love my family has withheld through grief.
My Nanny’s “secret” ingredient– a tablespoon of water– was underwhelming and easily overlooked. Surprisingly that small touch made all the difference, changing how my family and I viewed simple chocolate cookies.
Every time we miss her, we make a batch of cookies. With a slight change to a traditional recipe, older family members can feel comforted, and younger ones experience the care my Nanny embodied daily.
Her simple recipe continues to connect us all, as my Nanny’s humor and love did in years past.
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