"Hey, do you have the recipe for Mrs. Mullikin's banana bread?"
"Yep! Memorized: 3 cups flour, 2 cups sugar ..."
"No, I mean the actual recipe. You know the little piece of paper you used to scribble down the recipe for me? It has to be 15 years old with oil smudges and drops of vanilla all over it."
* Please hold.
"Buh-Nuh!! I found it!! Do I get a gold star for producing such an obscure yet beloved artifact??"
"Sure. As long as I get two gold stars for describing it perfectly."
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"Happy Mother's Day!"
(Scroll to see scratchmade banana bread and a laser-cut wooden plaque of the recipe)
"Oh my gosh, my sloppy handwriting ... but I love it so much! Thank you!"
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Mrs. Mullikin, a widow in her eighties, befriended me in my first years of marriage and parenting. Hers was the first banana bread I actually enjoyed. When I would swoon over it, she would emphasize, "It is Hawaiian. That's probably why you like it."
She shared her recipe with me, and I found even more to love. It only required one bowl and two measures: a cup and a teaspoon. I committed it to memory with little effort and lots of gratitude for dishwashing in a snap.
Many a Saturday morning of my kids' lives were spent boiling eggs for tuna salad, then immediately compensating for the stinky kitchen by baking a batch of banana bread. I still think the kids would conspire to stop eating fresh bananas once there were five left, knowing I would bake bread before letting them rot.
Once a child was old enough, I would share the prized recipe and let them give it a go. How many mushy bananas were rescued and redeemed by simply adding some staple ingredients, heating the oven to 350°, and waiting for an hour. Loads of sweet loaves made for many sweet memories.
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Parenting is a rich blend of challenge, failure, and reward. What is preserved is not perfect. The memories and messages are messy, but I have to believe in the gift of grace.
Grab some sugar and a wooden spoon. No matter how rotten things might seem to get, this will not be unredeemed.
