A Spoonful of Memories

This morning, as I stood in the kitchen mixing up a bowl of Heavenly Hash for our upcoming family Thanksgiving, something unexpected happened. One minute I was slicing maraschino cherries, minding my own business, and the next I was remembering how I used to tie cherry stems into knots—with my tongue. It’s a ridiculous talent to keep in the family record, but there it is. And as much as I’d like to say someone glamorous taught me that trick, the truth is, it was my Daddy. Who needs Hollywood when you’ve got a Georgia man in a button-down shirt, showing his kids circus tricks with a cherry stem?

I practiced those knots like I was training for the Olympics. Daddy would cheer me on with the seriousness of a coach preparing his athlete for the big leagues. The day I finally succeeded, he laughed so hard his eyes watered. Somehow that memory floated right back to me today, sticky fingers and all.

Food does that, doesn’t it? We take one bite, catch one smell, or handle one ingredient, and suddenly we’re nowhere near our kitchens—we’re back in another time, standing next to someone we love. While I stirred my bowl of whipped cream and fruit, I remembered something else: Daddy’s obsession with sweets. The man never met a sugar product he didn’t befriend. Ambrosia was his holiday love language.

Now, Daddy’s ambrosia wasn’t exactly the same as my Heavenly Hash—his was the old-school blend, the kind that looked like a snowstorm hit a fruit cocktail. But he loved it with a devotion only Southerners reserve for college football, cornbread, and Jesus. After we grew up, Mama even started keeping a huge apothecary jar filled with Little Debbie snacks on her counter. Not because it looked pretty, not because it was convenient—no, that jar existed solely for Daddy’s sugar rations. If a grandchild dared reach in without permission, Mama would say, “Ask first. Those are Papa's.” As if he were paying rent on the treats.

I don’t know when jars of sweets and bowls of fruit mixed with whipped cream became the guardians of my memories, but today I’m grateful for it. As I sliced cherries and stirred fluff, I felt Daddy close by… like a quiet reminder that love lingers in the silliest things—recipes, traditions, and even cherry-stem party tricks.

Maybe that’s the beauty of holiday preparation. You think you’re cooking. You think you’re marking items off a list. But really, you’re opening the door to old stories, letting your heart pull up a chair at the table long before anyone else arrives.

So I’ll keep stirring, chopping, and tasting. I’ll make my Heavenly Hash, set the table, and welcome whoever walks through the door. And if someone asks why I’m smiling to myself while slicing cherries, maybe I’ll just tell them: “I’m visiting with Daddy. He showed up early in my memories this year."

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Heavenly Father,
Thank You for the gift of memories that warm us like sunlight on a cold morning. Thank You for the people we’ve loved, the traditions that shape our families, and the ordinary moments—like stirring a bowl of dessert—that remind us we are never alone. Comfort our hearts as we remember those who shared our tables in years past, and help us honor them by loving well the ones who gather with us today. Bless our homes, our hands, and the food we prepare with joy. May gratitude season every dish, and may Your presence fill every seat at our table.
In Jesus’ name, Amen.