Butterhorn Resurrection

By Jim Kane, Minnesota

175-Word Micro Story Contest Winner - Adult

It begins each Christmas, this resurrection of my paternal grandmother, as I reverently lift the recipe card from my file and marvel anew at the grace and precision of her handwriting. Memories percolate as she leads me through the preparation, baking and frosting of butterhorns, my kitchen filling with wondrous aromas and the warmth of unconditional love I first experienced in hers 70 years ago. She becomes fully formed in these moments, wearing the same floral blue print dress and apron I knew as a child. We do not speak, but what passes between us could fill volumes. I like to think others in the family see her as we perpetuate a culinary tradition that unites us even at the farthest reaches of our diaspora. And I wonder if they revel, as I do, in grandma's permission to scarf up the icing that slides off the still-warm pastries. Instantly I am that young boy again and, for a few precious moments, innocent.

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