Memories are amazing things. The more fondly we look back on a moment, the more it can change how we remember it. Two people can be at the same event and remember it completely differently based on their experience. For me and many others, memories surrounding family meals, holidays, and gatherings make us want to recreate these dishes but it’s impossible to get it right.Ever wondered why?
Have you ever tried to recreate a meal or dessert from your childhood, and it just doesn’t seem quite right? It’s funny how your mind can play tricks on you. As a child, the absolute best cake in this world was my Memaw’s cake. It was a simple yellow cake with chocolate icing, nothing else could beat it. My mom has talked about a strawberry cake that her aunt made. She described it to me and I have tried to replicate it many times without a recipe; something just wasn’t quite right about it. I have even made dishes that we had growing up, but they just don’t live up to the memory I have of them.
What do these stories have in common? Well, in all of these instances, someone is remembering a cake from a cherished memory. In both cases, we tried recreating the cakes, but somehow, they never tasted quite the same. And come to find out that both cakes were box cake mix, nothing special, but the memory of them was special. Our memories are incredible. They have a way of making things seem better than they really were; not just a favorite cake, but moments, and even people.
I think sometimes we look back on the past with rose-colored glasses. Everything seems prettier, happier, or just better. I think sometimes we look back on the past with rose-colored glasses. Everything seems prettier, happier, or just better. I can follow a recipe to the letter, but I’ll still swear it isn’t quite right. The truth is, it was never just the cake or the meal that made it so good. It was the experience, the love, the moment itself. That memory is etched in our minds as perfect, because in all its imperfect glory, it truly was.
Looking back at those chaotic meals at my Memaw’s house, I don’t remember the negatives, how late we ran, what we ran out of, who argued with who, or if I got in trouble for trying to sneak a sample of icing. Instead, I remember the joy, the cooking, the conversations being had over snapping green beans, sitting on the porch and running around the yard and catching lightning bugs, and helping dry dishes even though I was probably more work than I was of help.
