My kitchen is a sacred space where I bring my mother back to life

Recently, my daughter came into the kitchen while I was cooking, gave me a hug, and said, “Mom, you smell like memories.”

Her words were more profound than she knew.

When I’m in the kitchen, I am surrounded by visceral memories. It’s a sacred space — an intimate place I shared with my mother. She cooked every day except Saturday, so the kitchen is where I got to know her. I saw her through how she talked about her own mother, her mother’s mother, her grandfather, and her father. I absorbed the legacy of family life lessons while making her hoe cakes, the deep ancestral stories she would pour into me as I used the hand mixer and listened.

She had a lot of stories to tell.

I grew up in Norristown, the middle of five children, in a rowhouse that was also home to dozens of foster children. Yet, even with one bathroom, it never felt crowded. My parents filled the house with love, which my mother expressed through cooking. If anyone missed dinner, she left a plate for them on the stove. Everyone loved her famous 7UP pound cakes, and she would make up to 20 every day, all from one oven.

My mother died in 2012. Now, when I want to feel close to her, I bake.

My mother wrote her recipes down on cards and kept them in a tin. I can visualize her cursive writing, her misspellings abundant. The tin contains centuries of oral legacy poured on the page because, in Black culture, there is often little written proof of our ancestors’ existence. We were an “X” on the U.S. Census; some of my ancestors were property. We passed down our legacy — our stories, our lessons, our history, and our recipes — while stirring a steaming pot of chicken and dumplings over the stove.

I have been thinking a lot about my mother’s recipe tin and about our time together in the kitchen as I’ve been working with other Philadelphia female restaurateurs, food entrepreneurs, and chefs.

When I see the women, and their books, stories, and beautiful photography, when I read their recipes and cook their baked goods, I see my mother’s tin. We share our stories and our wisdom at a table crammed so full of dishes you can barely make room for the next one. It’s about women putting themselves out there, and supporting one another. It’s about the sacredness of what happens when we get together, talk about our love language, and share our love language with others.

I am an attorney who developed a passion baking project during the pandemic, a cake company called Lizzie’s Love Cakes. It’s inspired by my mother and the stories we told together through baking. My experience starting a food business inspired me to attend an in-person town hall in 2021 hosted by the Sisterly Love Collective, a group of Philadelphia female restaurateurs, food entrepreneurs, and chefs. There, I saw so many shades of women.

As an attorney, I’ve often been in rooms where there is just one type of person, and I stick out. I’m used to that feeling. I know how to navigate it. I know how to camouflage myself if I don’t want to be seen. But in this room, I didn’t even have to start that thought process. I didn’t have to burn any of that energy. My only feeling was: I’m Cassandra, and I’m here representing Lizzie’s Love Cakes. I felt like I belonged. I felt seen — in all of my perfections and imperfections. And I wanted to be even more involved in this community.

Since then, this group of women has mentored and supported me as I’ve grown my business.

My kitchen is where my past and present collide. My ancestral history is seen in how I tap the air bubbles from each cake batter, or how I slowly integrate each ingredient with the utmost care.

You see, my cakes are cakes of emotions. They are handled with care because they hold the successes, failures, hurt, victories, wisdom — and, most importantly, the love — of my ancestors.

The writer L.M. Montgomery said it best: “Nothing is ever really lost to us as long as we remember it.”

For me, cooking is deeply personal. It has allowed me to keep remembering and sharing my mother’s and grandmothers’ stories through my food, passing their love along. It’s about sharing the love we received from all the mothers, grandmothers, aunties, and friends who, for generations, have poured their love into us.

Cassandra Burnett is an attorney and the owner of Lizzie’s Love Cakes. She lives in Williamstown. She is a member of the Sisterly Love Collective, which is organizing a monthlong festival called Cookbooks & Convos that runs through Oct. 25.