A moment that changed me: I thought Grandma's recipe died with her - and Christmas would never be the same

When you think of Christmas, what dish comes to mind? Maybe turkey, minced pies or mulled wine? For me, it's the festive fruit tart that my grandmother used to bake every year, to enjoy on Christmas Eve. When we settled down for dessert on December 24, after all the hustle and bustle of festive preparations, cross-country travel and the stresses that often accompany a family Christmas, serving the pie was a signal to relax. /p >

But when my grandmother passed away suddenly in 2016, we couldn't find the recipe anywhere. We scoured her kitchen, leafing through cookbooks and notes, but there was no sign of it. Her recipe, it seemed, died with her.

That Christmas was brutal. Our celebrations were muted. Family members would burst into tears whenever Little Donkey, one of their favorite carols, played. Everywhere I looked there were holes where Grandma should have been. She should have been sitting on her usual stool when we opened our presents. She should have been perched on the kitchen stairs while dinner was being prepared, her offers of help rebuffed. She should have nudged us out of the door for one of her “little steps” to walk out of the chopped pies. She should have served her pie on Christmas Eve.

For most of my life, my grandmother was the fittest senior I ever met. His great passion in life, outside of his family, was walking. She was mostly herself walking along a trail, eating a packed lunch in a soggy field, or planning a route along the South West Coast Path. Even in her 80s, she could climb a hill faster than me. She seemed invincible.

Because of that, and as young people do so often, I thought I had more time with her. I didn't always text her back, didn't call her as often as I should have, and didn't visit her enough. I didn't ask him enough questions. I didn't take enough pictures of her. I did not retain the sound of his voice. I didn't ask him for his recipes.

I thought I had more time. We always think we have more time.

Five years after that difficult first Christmas without Grandma, a small group from my church organized a meal where everyone was invited to bring a traditional family meal. There was only one thing I could possibly accept. I decided – recipe or not – to try recreating the pie. I am not a baker; Welsh cakes, cookies and the occasional brownie are really my limit. But I thought maybe I could find something similar to what I remembered from the pie and maybe modify it a bit. It was time to turn to the internet.

I racked my brains: there were cranberries, I knew it. I could imagine them, shining like a jewel among the other fruits. Something sweet. Pear, maybe? Apple? There was a crunch: pecans! I had something to work with.

I found a few options that might work, but thought I'd check with my mom in case I misremembered the dish. When she said it might be a tarte tatin, things changed. It only took a few seconds online for me to find it - the recipe. It was not at all an invention of my grandmother or a family recipe passed down from generation to generation. It was a 2005 recipe from Waitrose, which she must have picked up as a card from the supermarket (to my knowledge she has never used the internet for recipes, which is why I hadn't thought to try it in line before). He was there on the screen. Grandma's pie.

There is no special magic in a beloved pudding, ring or garment that we cling to long after someone dies 'a. But things can help us remember people who are no longer with us. My grandmother may not have been at the table with us that year, but a tiny part of her inheritance was, sitting on a plate in front of each of us with a generous helping of cream. As we ate our tarte tatin together that Christmas, one of the huge holes where my grandmother should have been was no longer there. Yes, Little Donkey was still a little heartbreaking for us, but now we could share our memories with more affection than pain.

Sorrow never goes away but, over time, its sting diminishes. The space around it expands to allow light to return. We realize that those we love are not completely gone. That Christmas, thanks to a cranberry and pecan pie, we had the impression of finding a little piece of grandmother...