When the one-year anniversary of my mother's passing came around, I found myself in the kitchen preparing her favorite dishes. On a hot August afternoon, I made her famous turkey soup.
As I cooked, the deep sadness of the anniversary moved through me. I remembered how she would cook egg noodles right in the broth, and the time she brought a jar of that soup to my workplace when I was sick. Thinking of her bread and the butter we'd dip in the broth, I began to feel a little more buoyant.
I realized I was reconnecting with my mother through food. I had unknowingly created a ritual to honor her. Feeling her presence, I asked aloud, "What else should we make?"
"Irish Potato Pancakes," came the reply.
I hesitated. The last time I made them was over two years ago. I had taken off my engagement ring to knead the dough and never found it again. I had resented the recipe ever since, blaming it for my loss. My mom knew how upset I was—she always had a knack for helping me find lost things, but not this time.
Despite my hesitations, caught up in the moment, I reached for the cookbook. I opened it to the pancake recipe. Something at the bottom of the page caught my eye... It sparkled! I gasped in utter amazement. There, pressed into the pages, was my diamond ring!
Chills ran through me. How was this possible? Hadn't I used this book in three years? Hadn't it survived two moves? Hadn't I checked it before?
My mind quieted as my heart overflowed with gratitude. I slipped the ring onto my trembling hand and whispered, "Thanks, Mom."
That day, I made potato pancakes in the shape of hearts.