Page 9 of Cooking Up My Comeback

“I see. Did art happen to the couch too?”

“Maybe a little bit.” He gives me his most innocent smile.

I survey the damage—it’s not too bad, mostly washable finger paint and one very organized living room. This is actually one of histamer creative episodes.

“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up before Crew gets home.”

“Can we make cookies after?”

“What kind of cookies?”

“The ones that taste like hugs.”

And there it is. The thing I’ve been afraid to admit to myself, delivered by a little boy with finger paint in his hair. I know how to make food that tastes like hugs. I learned it from watching Grandma, and I’ve been practicing it every day for the past six years, even in a kitchen full of broken equipment.

While Mason’s getting cleaned up, I dig through the bills stacked on the kitchen counter. Mortgage. Utilities. Groceries for three kids that somehow cost more every week. The unemployment will cover the basics, but there’s no room for emergencies. Or soccer cleats. Or the million tiny expenses that come with raising kids.

I spread the bills out like I’m looking for a miracle, hoping to find some hidden message that says “everything will be fine.” Instead, they just remind me that being a single mom means every month is a balancing act between what we need and what we can afford.

That’s when I remember the recipe box.

The attic stairs creak under my weight, and the air up here is thick with August heat and decades of accumulated memories. Grandma’s recipe box sits where I left it yesterday, cream-colored with painted flowers and slightly rusted edges.

I settle on the dusty floor and open it carefully. The cards feel fragile in my hands, like they might crumble if I handle them too roughly. Her handwriting is everywhere—instructions, modifications, notes in the margins that make me hear her voice.

Don’t overmix the batter, sweetheart. Just until it comes together.

Add a pinch of cayenne to the chocolate cake. Trust me on this one.

This was your grandfather’s favorite. He’d eat the whole pan if I let him.

I was eight when I started spending full summers here. Dad was obsessed with his fishing boat, but Mom insisted I needed some “practical life skills” beyond baiting hooks. So mornings were for fishing with Dad, afternoons were for cooking with Grandma.

That’s where I learned the secrets. Toast your spices for thirty seconds before adding them to anything. The secret to perfect mashed potatoes isn’t butter—it’s warming the milk first. A dash of coffee enhances chocolate better than vanilla ever could.

But more than techniques, Grandma taught me aboutintention. About how the mood you bring to cooking affects everything you make.

“Food is love made visible,” she used to say, elbow-deep in bread dough or stirring a pot of soup that could feed half the neighborhood. “When you cook for someone, you’re telling them they matter.”

I pull out a card that’s more stained than the others—her famous crab cake recipe. The one that made people propose marriage, according to family legend. The secret was Old Bay, obviously, but also a touch of Dijon mustard and just enough breadcrumb to hold everything together without masking the crab.

This could work. These recipes, this knowledge—it’s more than just cooking. It’s creating experiences. Making people feel welcome and fed and cared for.

The question is: am I brave enough to try?

“Mama?” Mason appears in the attic doorway, now clean and wearing dinosaur pajamas even though it’s only four in the afternoon. “Whatcha doing?”

“Looking at Grandma’s recipes.” I make room for him on the dusty floor.

He settles next to me with the boneless grace of a wiggly boy, picking up a card with a drawing of a cat in the corner—Grandma used to doodle when she was thinking. “Can we make cookies now?”

“We can make cookies. The hug kind.”

“Yay!” He bounces up, then pauses. “Mama? Are you sad?”

“A bit sad. But sometimes being sad about missing someone is okay, because it means you loved them a lot.”

He nods solemnly, then brightens. “Cookies make everything better.”