Recipe for Forgiveness
by Julie Lockhart

My mother loved to tell. She would place the stool in the tiny kitchen and tell me to watch her cook. She’d never let me cook or bake by myself. No, you would make a big mess, she’d tell me. I can still hear her voice when I thicken a sauce. You start with melting the butter, she’d tell me. But don’t burn it. I’d watch her measure out the flour. Don’t spill any of it; we don’t want bugs, she’d tell me. Then she’d sprinkle it into the butter and stir. Add the milk slowly, she’d tell me. Don’t stop stirring or the sauce will get lumpy and burn. When it boils, turn the heat down; the sauce will thicken, and then add the salt. Don’t let it boil too long or it will be too thick, she’d tell me.

Don’t deviate from the recipe; it won’t be any good, she’d tell me.

Don’t wear your hair down; it makes your face look skinny.

Don’t ever wear black; it will make you look pale.

Don’t buy that dress; it makes you look fat.

Don’t make any mistakes; you’ll embarrass me.

Don’t you dare vote for a Democrat; those people are ruining this country for the rest of us.

Don’t have pre-marital sex; he will think you are cheap and leave you, she’d tell me.

She’s gone now. Six years. Her words echo in my head, even now in my sixth decade. I’ve spent my life making mistakes, being less than the perfect person she admonished me to be. She taught me well how to deprecate myself for every misstep. I’ve spent many decades trying to eradicate “No” and “Don’t” from my vocabulary.

But can I forgive her? 

Back in college with a new hippy boyfriend, I got out my mom’s brownie recipe with her distinctive scribble covering the index card. I had watched her make them over and over. She loved desserts. I bought baking chocolate at the store. My boyfriend pulled flour, sugar, and vanilla out of his cupboard and grabbed eggs out of the refrigerator. I opened the flour to measure. It was brown. Why is this brown? I asked. It’s whole wheat, he said. More healthy. I followed all the instructions on the recipe card, hearing her voice. I spilled flour and sugar everywhere. (Oh no, bugs!) The house smelled of sweet chocolate as they baked. But the brownies came out heavy and dry. (Oh, no! She didn’t tell me about whole wheat flour.) Later that day, we boxed up the brownies to give to a friend as a joke, had premarital sex, and talked about liberal politics.

Over time, I sought out my own recipes. Allergic to wheat and eggs, it’s been trial and error to discover what works. My vegan, gluten-free chocolate cake is a favorite. 

Measure out GF flour, baking soda, and salt, and spill some on the counter. 
———-Spill any worries about bugs. 

Change the recipe by doubling the cacao. 
———-Change negative thoughts by remembering her delighted smile as she devoured a good dessert. 

Sift the cacao with the flour. 
———-Sift residual anger toward your mother, smoothing it out. 

Make a “flax egg” by mixing one tablespoon of flax meal and three teaspoons of water. 
———-Make peace with your mother’s constant critique that still mixes into your days. 

Add the coconut sugar (instead of brown sugar). 
———-Add a sweet memory of your mother’s excellent taste in art, clothing, and home décor. 

Nearly forget to add the melted coconut oil waiting in the microwave. 
———-Forget her mean comment that she could eat more ice cream than you and not get fat. 

Enhance the hold of the batter by adding applesauce and apple cider vinegar. 
———-Enhance self-love by holding your heart tenderly and with compassion. 

Stir in almond milk to get the right consistency. 
———-Stir in compassion for whatever pain she held that kept her from loving you unconditionally. 

Pour the batter into a greased cake pan. 
———-Pour out your heart onto the pages of your writing journal. 

Pop the cake into the oven and bake. 
———-Pop over to the mirror, look deep into your eyes, and remind yourself that you are your own person – you are not your mother. 

After the cake cools, forgive yourself for feasting on more than one piece. Forgive your mother in little bites; keep baking until your thoughts of her become soft and fluffy frosting. 

Wear long hair and black clothing with abandon.

Julie Lockhart spent most of her career in academics, publishing in peer-reviewed journals. She also led a grief support nonprofit, sharing her writings to help grieving people feel less alone. Her work has appeared in Medford Mail Tribune, Ashland Daily Tidings, Women on Writing, and Journal of Wild Culture.​