Page 29 of Cooking Up My Comeback
That was not the reaction I expected.
“What?”
“I’ve been waiting for this shoe to drop for months. The way you talk about that place? I’m surprised you didn’t set it on fire on the way out.”
“It wasn’t exactly voluntary.”
“Neither was childbirth, but here we are.”
I laugh.
“Therewas a health inspection.”
Her eyes soften. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I know how much you poured into that place.”
“I tried so hard to keep it running. And then it was just... gone.”
She squeezes my hand. “Sometimes when one door closes, it’s because a better one is trying to find room to open.”
“That’s not even the complicated part.”
“Oh?”
“There’s this man.” I look down. “His name is Brett. He offered to help me open a restaurant.”
Her eyebrows climb toward her hairline. “As in... help? Like a business partner?”
“He bought this old building downtown and thinks it could be a restaurant again. He says he sees potential in it—and in me.”
She smiles softly. “And do you?”
“I want to. I think I do. But it’s huge. It would mean betting everything on a new dream. Again.”
“You know, Grandma Pearl used to say the best biscuits come from dough that’s been worked hard. It takes pressure and folding and a little mess before you get something worth eating.”
I laugh through my tears. “She also used to say ‘bless their hearts’ about people she couldn’t stand.”
“She was complex.”
We fall into comfortable silence.
“You’ve always had a gift,” she says finally. “Notjust for cooking, but for making people feel like they belong. Your grandmother would be so proud.”
The weight of her belief in me hits like a wave. The grief I’ve been carrying. The fear that’s been gnawing at my confidence. I don’t say anything. I just sit there and let myself feel it.
Mom returns with photo albums—big faux-leather scrapbooks with puffy covers. The first page shows me at eight, standing on a step stool in Grandma’s kitchen, wearing an apron three sizes too big and holding a whisk like a magic wand.
“She said you insisted on adding nutmeg. Wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
“She let me name the muffins. I called them Sunshine Bites.”
“She made them for church every Sunday after that. Said it was your signature recipe.”
She flips another page. There’s a picture of us rolling out dough side by side, my hands covered in flour while she shows me how to cut biscuits without twisting the cutter.
“She used to say food wasn’t just nourishment. It was love with seasoning.”
“She was right.”
