Made With Love
By Claire Conger
June 10, 2022
To me, few things beat the feelings of love I have entangled with my memories associated with food. Birthdays mean getting a burrito at my favorite taco restaurant. Christmas means my Granny Kay’s famous cheesy potatoes and my Aunt Carrie’s coffee cake. Saturday mornings smell like fresh french toast made by my mom; something that is now carried on by my brother and me due to our shared breakfast food infatuation. Sunday nights, at first reluctantly, and now gladly, entail Barbeque smoke and Aretha Franklin as my dad cooks us salmon, rice, and broccoli. It's the little memories of my favorite people and my favorite foods. Countless times have I watched my mom prepare turkey ragu. She happily tasked me with the job of stirring the pot of sauce and over the years, slowly showing me how to make it on my own.
These memories of growing up, of family, and of comfort have instilled in me the importance of “made with love.” As I’ve grown into my own culinary abilities, I have taken this phrase and turned it into my own love language both towards myself and others.
I first started baking when I was in elementary school. I stood next to my mom in the kitchen as we baked cookies, spice bread, or pie. Salmonella fears aside, she handed my brother and I each a paddle from the mixer; strategically avoiding any “they got more than me!” arguments while also satisfying our pleas to try the dough or batter. Most of the time, we baked for a birthday or a holiday. But some days, I came into my house embraced by the warm, sweet smell of brownies, “just because.” After I had watched my mom enough times, I started to bake on my own. In middle and high school I stayed up late after doing my homework baking brownies, cupcakes, or cookies to bring to my friends at school. I not-so-quietly banged around my kitchen utensils, picturing my friends’ faces when I presented them each with a baggie of their favorite sweets, “just because.” Each moment I spend in the kitchen cooking for others, or myself, I spend appreciating the serenity of my craft and thinking about how happy it might make someone knowing I made something just for them.
The truth is, I never make something “just because.” Food is my love language and all the early mornings, sticky afternoons, and aroma-filled evenings I spend in my kitchen are full of purpose. Full of love. Living in the dorms during my first year at the University of Oregon has made me realize how much of a staple cooking is in my life, and how much I miss it now. I often spend my time daydreaming about living in an apartment next year where I can wake up early in the morning to prepare breakfast for my roommates, “just because.” I long for the days when french toast can once again be the first and most important item on my agenda and when Aretha Franklin can ring through the air as I prepare a meal made with love. Until then, I’ve mastered the craft of cooking pancakes inside my only pot (potcakes, if you will) and using a cake cutter instead of a spatula. I’ve continued my love language of food made with love by bringing my dorm pancakes to my roommate and basking in the little moment of happiness she gets from her sweet Sunday surprise.