Yesterday I pulled out my old rolling pin and called upon my ancestors--particularly the Pennsylvania Dutch ones--to guide me as I made my family's recipe for chicken pot pie with homemade egg noodles. (I hadn't attempted homemade egg noodles for at least twenty years!) The experience was nothing short of magical. They were with me every moment of every hour of the preparation. I could hear their voices, crisp and clear, whispering to me. My father told me not to waste one piece of the stewed chicken. He, missing now for 37 Easters, and yet I heard his beautiful voice and my hands became his hands as I picked that chicken carcass clean. Nothing wasted. He would be proud. And my mother, gone now 24 Easters, was behind me as I worked the dough in my hands. And as I rolled, my hands became her hands, applying the perfect pressure to achieve the perfect egg noodles, which I cut with the precision of a surgeon. Her sweet voice praised me for being patient during the process, reminding me that good things take time and can't be rushed. Meaningful advice for life, not just for cooking and baking.
I almost forgot to share the most important secret ingredient: love, of course. Don't forget the love.
