Three and a half years ago, my Nan, Esma Wilson passed away. Not a day goes by without me thinking of her. When faced with moral decisions, I still say to myself, "What would Nan do?" She was an amazing lady. Tough when she needed to be, but filled with more love than I ever thought possible. I miss her, and I always will.
As a child, I knew that my Nan was magic in the kitchen. I loved everything she cooked. But above all things, I loved her molasses cookies. Deep brown, crisp and ever so slightly salty. They were the best cookies in the world. And there was always a big pickle jar of them sitting on the kitchen counter.
Last winter, my Aunt Karin gave me a little plastic bag of cookies when I came to visit her. She had made Nan's molasses cookies. The sight and smell of them was enough to start me crying. I took one bite, and I was in the old family house on Champlain Street, sneaking cookies out of the jar as the family listened to my cousin play the piano. And there was Nan, catching me with a quick stare, and then shaking her head when I moved to put the cookies back.
I came home, and tucked the few remaining cookies away in the freezer, grabbing a half-cookie when I felt in need of a pick-me-up. Last week, I ate the last 2 cookies. Then I asked Aunt Karin for the recipe.
I never expected to feel as nervous as I did when I began the recipe. These were NAN's molasses cookies. Messing them up was not an option. I took my time, and hovered over them like a mother hen as they baked. Once they were done, I sat down with a small stack of them, and a glass of milk. They were just as I remembered them. And I wasn't in my Nan's house.
She was in mine.
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