I had just finished baking the biscotti for the Christmas season and as I examined the jelly roll pan out of which I had scooped the last of the double baked delicacies, I was struck by just how well used the pan had been. It was my mother’s biscotti pan. I wondered how old it really was and as I turned the pan over in the now, crumb saturated dishwater, I could see the years of baking etched on the floor of the pan. I ran my hand over the surface and with a brillo pad from my stock, began to swirl the bluish gray soap around the bottom of the pan. Evidence of years of use had given the pan a somewhat battered look and the knife nicks from the cutting of biscotti shone through the surface in shiny, diagonal and parallel lines all over the floor of the well-used pan. I hesitated for a moment in my deliberate scrubbing and wondered just how many dozens of these cookies my mother had made. I wondered how many of my cut lines matched hers, and I stared at the marks as if to imagine which knife she used to make them. For nearly ten minutes
I was lost in my memories…coming home from school right before Christmas to see my
mom in the kitchen, dozens of cookies in neat piles would adorn the countertops while they cooled and she would be standing there baking, tea towel over her shoulder, a fine layer of flour on every surface, the house filled with the luscious aroma of anise and vanilla. She was extraordinarily neat about how she organized the lot and as is necessary with so many Italian treats, each and every one – pizzelle and biscotti alike – were treated with the utmost of care so as not to break them. After all, who would want the broken ones anyway? Of course, we would have eaten them in a heartbeat!
How I loved coming home from school on the day she made biscotti. They were my absolute favorite and I always got the first taste. The crispy, browned almond encrusted cookie would melt in my mouth. The second one always required a cold glass of milk - for dunking. What a treat that was. The biscotti became her signature pastry and to this day, I pride myself on how well I am able to make mine taste just like hers. I treasure the compliment every year, as my mom’s only living sister tells me that only I can make biscotti like my mom. I smile inwardly, satisfied beyond description that I could carry on such a tradition and that in
doing so, could humbly honor my mom.
I scrub the years of baked on Crisco away from the edges of the pan. My daughter
sneaks into the kitchen, nose in the air, sniffing. She walks quietly over to the cooling biscotti and examines each for her selection.
“Can I have one, Mom?”
I smile.
“Sure. Pick whichever one you want.”
I enjoy the moment, watching her eat the first one.
She savors it, closes her eyes, smiles, and chews ever so slowly. She moans pleasantly as a compliment. And now I know. This is exactly how my mother must have felt when she watched me do the same.
The pan is now gleaming, the diagonal lines even more evident. As I turn to put my
energy into scrubbing the inside corners of the pan, I stop for a moment. A friend once told me never to scrub my cookie sheets – yet this one so badly needed it. But if I removed the last bit of evidence that my mother might have left behind, it would be gone forever, and there would be nothing left with which to tell the story.
I decided to stop.
Perhaps one day, my own daughter will use the same pan, and with the same care and
patience will also carry on the tradition. Then she too will have her own story to tell.
