December sun streamed through the windows of my grandmother’s farmhouse in Newton. Outside, it was cold and clear, but somehow, in the warmth of her kitchen, it was snowing.

Using a dishcloth, Mommommy, my maternal grandmother, had just pulled a baking sheet of golden brown, pecan-studded shortbread cookies from her oven. Then came the magic: She sifted a soft, glittering pile of powdered sugar over the cookies until they were nearly lost under a sweet, white blanket. I was 7 years old and entranced by the powdered sugar flurries.

Each Christmas, my grandmother still bakes dozens of the cookies, which our family calls pecan puffs, for Granddaddy to deliver to neighbors and friends up and down their road. As I’ve watched her craft many batches over the years, I’ve picked up on her unspoken tips for how to make them just right: Don’t skimp on the vanilla. Pull the cookies from the oven when they’re just barely golden brown. When you think you’ve coated them in enough powdered sugar, add more.

Now, it’s a recipe I know by heart.

• • •

Growing up, my dream was to attend culinary school. One of my first memories in the kitchen is of Granna, my paternal grandmother, taking my hand in hers as we mixed the batter for a layer cake when I was 4 years old. She showed me how to constantly stir the boiled chocolate frosting, a recipe she knew by heart. I grew so serious about baking professionally that I asked for a stand mixer for my 13th birthday. Soon, a sleek white KitchenAid showed up, and my parents encouraged me to start a small business. Throughout high school, I filled our fridge and counter with cakes, cupcakes, and cookies nearly every weekend.

After years of baking for my business — and many stressful wedding cake deliveries — I realized that the magic I’d once found in the kitchen was slipping away. Baking had become transactional. By the time I moved to Greensboro after college, I had essentially closed up shop.

My first thought is, “How can I pray?” And the second is, “Which casserole will I take?”

But as I settled into this new city and began putting down roots, I started to remember why I’d fallen in love with baking in the first place. If someone in my church family has died, my first thought is, “How can I pray?” And the second is, “Which casserole will I take?” It’s a form of love that I’ve witnessed firsthand for my whole life as I’ve stood alongside my grandmothers in the kitchen.

When I told Mommommy that I was moving, she went to her china cabinet to pick out a pattern. “For your own table,” she told me. She carefully packed up the dishes — the ones inlaid with a gold-and-green design that she had collected from A&P grocery stores over many months in the ’70s with my great-grandmother (read more about her collection here). In my own new beginning, I’d have a piece of her, miles away from Newton.

The writer has committed her maternal grandmother’s recipe for pecan puffs to memory. To make them yourself, visit ourstate.com/pecan-puffs. photograph by Dhanraj Emanuel

A couple of years ago, when my Granna died, I inherited some of her treasures, too. Now, when I frost birthday cakes for friends, I stack the layers tall on a glass stand that she once placed on party and potluck tables. Even though I’ve never been able to make a batch of frosting that tastes quite like hers, I keep trying — I have the recipe memorized, after all. I whisper her instructions to myself like a prayer.

In some ways, I feel unworthy of these pieces. It’s not just the dishes but also what they carry: recipes committed to memory, methods these women shared with me that were passed down from their mothers and grandmothers.

• • •

On a quiet evening last December, I stood alone in my Greensboro loft with my cat, Buttercup, flitting around my ankles. I would soon join my family in Newton for Christmas supper, but first, I wanted to bake treats for the new community I’d built.

During the holidays, I feel a near-supernatural tug to whisk, sift, cream, and fold, just like my grandmothers. I can still picture each of them in their cozy kitchens at Christmastime, stirring icing as someone passes by and steals a spoonful, shaping cookies with the December sun streaming in, buttering rolls while the oven timer beeps. I’m the farthest that I’ve ever been from them, but somehow, in my kitchen, I feel closer to them than ever.

The writer cherishes her maternal grandma’s china and handwritten recipes, and her paternal grandma’s Pyrex bowls, measuring cup, and spoons. photograph by Dhanraj Emanuel

Now, my creations were scattered across every surface. I’d made favorites like sausage balls and “tree bark” toffee, but I’d also tried a few new recipes, too, including one I’d just developed for cinnamon buns. I felt a small ache in my chest as I spread them generously with browned-butter cream cheese frosting, wishing that Granna could taste them, could give me her stamp of approval. In the year before she passed, she was always the first person to try my new bakes, and I would always pull out my phone to record her reactions.

I set down my frosting-covered spatula and scrolled through my camera roll to find a video from 2021 — her last summer. In it, I hand her a still-warm chocolate chip cookie. She takes a bite, sighs, and in her soft drawl exclaims, “Darlin’, it’s delicious. This is the best thing I’ve ever eaten in my life.” A year had come and gone, but I still craved her approval, missed her words of reassurance. I put my phone down, lifted a warm bun out of the pan, and took a bite, replaying the memory over and over in my mind, until I believed her words. Darlin’, it’s delicious.

I could almost feel her holding my hand around the spoon, guiding me.

A few minutes later, the calm of my kitchen was broken as I started a batch of pecan puffs. I creamed butter and sugar for the delicate cookies, knocking a wooden spoon gently against a green Pyrex bowl that Granna had used for more than 50 years. As I stirred, I could almost feel her holding my hand around the spoon, her soft yet frail fingers interlaced with my small ones, guiding me.

I poured in tablespoons of vanilla and rolled the dough into spheres, recalling how, as a child, I’d stand on a stool next to Mommommy with sticky hands, watching how she portioned the dough just so. I baked them until they were barely golden brown, and even though I had a timer set, I kept an eye on the oven just like she’s always done. As I coated the puffs with a thick layer of powdered sugar — little snow-capped mountains — and took the first, flaky bite, there was something in the moment that felt sacred. My own hands carrying on these edible traditions, this simple kind of love. A feeling I know by heart.

Related: Make your own pecan puffs.