Dec 12, 2009 16:49
I grew up flipping through my mother's Taste of Home magazines, pointing out things with my sister we thought would be awesome to make or eat, trying to beat her at finding the toothpick.
Today, returning to my room post shower, I found my mail propped outside my door. It included a Taste of Home magazine, a gift subscription from my grandmother.
Receiving the magazine in my name strikes one of those odd adulthood chords, the one seemingly based in the kitchen and among things of my mother's. I have my own copy of the big red cookbook. I have plastic containers similar to the ones we had for flour and sugar when I was growing up. And I now have this magazine.
None of these things would immediately come to mind if I were to make a list of things that make me an adult. Living on my own, financially independent, responsible for important decisions; these I would say. So perhaps these other things, cook books and implements, trigger more a feeling of coming of age in a way that was done before me, a warm comfortable heritage. Most of my life has become unconventional to the common paths of a midwest-raised woman, but I haven't shaken everything.