For carrot ring.
I shared in a recent column how this is my first round the holidays without my mom.
My mom, who passed in August. My mom, who left much behind. But not her recipe for carrot ring.
How my sister and I were freaking out over this at Thanksgiving.
You, being you, Dear Reader, have come through.
If there is a recipe for carrot ring out there, you have sent it to me.
Any ingredient. Any variation. Raisins. Nuts. Peas.
Yes, peas.
That’s actually how my mom used to serve it, filling the hole of the carrot ring with peas.
My heart was full with gratitude. And yet, there still was one thing missing: How you cook it.
Sure, each recipe has baking instructions. But not a single one to bring back the memories.
My mother was famous for liking, insisting, demanding all food was cooked.
Cooked well. Extra, extra, extra well. Chalk-dust done. The kind of thing you don’t realize until you grow up and taste someone else’s cooking. Or the oven breaks.
As it did the year I was a junior in high school. Thirty people were coming over for Thanksgiving when both ovens went out. Mom forced to serve food as is. She was horrified.
“Who serves raw food?” she lamented.
We, however, were delighted — for we found the food wasn’t raw. It actually was, what’s the word?
That’s right.
Moist.
Flavorful.
Which brings me to the phone call — the one that came in today, from Barbara. My mom’s 81-year-old lifelong friend.
“Honey, I read your column. How would you like Mom’s carrot ring recipe?”
Talk about opening an early holiday present.
Barbara proceeded to list off the ingredients sounding much like the recipes you sent me.
“1 1/4 cup of grated carrots, 1/2 cup brown sugar…”
And then, there they were.
The cooking instructions.
Without a shred of doubt this was from Mom.
“Cook at 325 degrees for 45 minutes to an hour plus.”
Ten dollars says the original recipe calls for 45 minutes.
No doubt Mom modified to the hour plus with emphasis on the plus.
I could barely contain myself, typing out the recipe and emailing it off to my sister, loving images of overcooked carrot ring dancing in my heart.
“Did you get the recipe?” I texted when I got no response.
“I did, but I’m pretending I didn’t,” she confessed.
“Why would you do that?”
“Because I like our new tradition when each year I will ask you if you have Mom’s carrot ring recipe.”
And so it is.
With all family recipes, I suspect.
It’s not that they taste the best. It’s the connection they bring. To the past. To each other.
How sweet it is that a hole in my heart is filled with something new.
Our ring is now complete.
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