Seasoned with Love: Mom Cooks Another Masterpiece

I always used to wonder what my mother did to make her meals taste so good. I would sometimes watch how she cooked, and what she included in each dish, to discover if she used any “secret ingredients.” Nothing she put in seemed suspicious, but the flavors her cooking produced drew nothing but suspicion. I knew I was missing something whenever she mixed flour, eggs, sugar, and chocolate chips in a bowl, threw it all in the oven, and after a few minutes pulled out dozens of chocolate chip cookies. I knew she had some trick whenever I would put the same amount of cheese, the same amount of milk, and the same amount of butter into a pot of noodles as she did, and yet my macaroni and cheese would not compare to the stuff she produced. For years these things remained enigmas to me, but one day it hit me that her “secret” ingredient was the most obvious one in existence. That ingredient was love.

I wonder why I never saw her secret before, when she so plainly plastered it all over her kitchen. In all her decoration, she constantly reminded herself and everyone why her meals had any flavor at all. Her light blue and white walls were hung with a cloth heart and a homemade sign bearing the word, “Welcome!” The stove supported a small container filled with dried flowers bearing the word, “Love.” The counters bore the marks and stains of many years of love, and the cookie jars that rested upon them were appropriately embellished with hearts. Even the refrigerator was a reminder of her most priceless ingredient, with a heart-shaped wooden magnet bearing the words of 1 Corinthians 13:13: “Now these three remain: faith, hope, and love; but the greatest of these is love.”

I suppose I should have seen love in the way she cooked for other families. When she was serving our friends, she always took special care to please all tastes. For instance, we had some friends over recently for flank steak tacos and Mexican rice. I was watching my mother and sister prepare the dips for the appetizers. They made every effort to ensure our guests would enjoy the meal and the evening. When they were making bean dip, they discussed at length which hot sauce to put in it. They wanted to make the dip spicy enough for those who could handle it, but mild enough for those who couldn’t, so they wisely settled on a mix of both sauces. The salsa’s spiciness was also a concern, so Mom, who generally dislikes spicy foods, sacrificed the comfort of her own tongue by testing it out. She had to gulp down glasses of water for minutes afterward, but this showed her that the salsa needed to be a little bit gentler. She added some water to it, and everyone adored it. I adored it also, and the bean dip, but I completely missed the reason. Mom’s intangible care had a very tangible effect on the food she produced, but I didn’t see it. Love had affected my world, but I couldn’t taste it.

Certainly I should have caught on when Mom lived out the most dominant characteristic of true love, that is, perseverance through trials. It was a tremendous struggle for Mom to manage all the affairs of her household while continuing to provide several meals a day for everyone, let alone for guests. My mother had just arrived home from a long day of shopping a half-hour before our friends were due to arrive. She still had to wash the dishes, sweep the floor, and prepare the appetizers before they arrived. Any ordinary person like me would have dropped it all and ordered pizza for everyone. But Mom knew she had a duty to provide her guests with a decent meal, and she was determined to be faithful to this commitment. With my sister’s help, she applied herself to the task and everyone had an enjoyable meal.

Looking back, it seems obvious why I enjoyed Mom’s food so much. Whenever I ate the meals she prepared, I was ingesting the very essence of motherhood, the earnest longing to love and care for children and a family. I sat in her beautiful kitchen, listened to the sweet music, inhaled the delicious aromas, and devoured the luscious cuisine. And I wouldn’t have traded these meals for the cooking of a thousand master chefs, because my mother included an ingredient that mere food cannot contain. She included an atmosphere of love that fed my soul as well as my flesh. She included a love of friends that sacrificed her own comfort for the comfort of others. And most importantly, she included a love of God, who first loved her and taught her to love others. God made me love Mom’s meals, for He answered the prayer that she attached to our refrigerator: “God bless this kitchen—its cozy space holds both a hearth and gathering place. May every meal that I prepare be seasoned with God’s loving care.”