I remember being at the family cabin up in Togo, MN. The weather was beautiful. I was about 7. Grandma Koski and I were in the cabin making blueberry buckle. (I should clarify: Grandma was making the buckle; I was, um, assisting.) My job primarily consisted of asking lots of questions, measuring out two cups of blueberries, and pouring them in at the end. Grandma took care of the other details like flour, shortening, egg, milk, the oven, the pan.
And the buckle baked up so yummy. We would have it warm (not hot) with vanilla ice cream. It was delicious. I can taste the sweetness in my mouth. The breeze blowing through the cabin cooling it off after we used the oven. I can smell the buckle baking.
I made some myself last night. It just wasn't the same. It didn't taste the same. It didn't smell the same. Hmm. It wasn't bad. It just wasn't great. Maybe Grandma added extra things while I wasn't looking? Or maybe she didn't...and it was just better then. Being there, with her, learning how to bake. I still make her blueberry pie the way she did...just add a little of this and that. No measuring. And it turns out great. Not the same as Grandma's, but a good substitute.
rj
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