Almost every week my parents and I would go to Grandma and Grandpa Hale's house for Sunday dinner. Grandma Hale was the shutterbug in the family and I was always ready to pose.

I used to think I didn't have anything to say about my childhood. For the life of me, except for the bad complaining stuff, I couldn't remember a thing I did with my parents as a kid. Since I didn't want to lug those stories around with me the rest of my life, my mind would always go blank whenever some­body started talking about their warm and fuzzy childhood experiences.

"I remember when," somebody would begin . . . and from those three words would flow a precious childhood memory about the time they got caught sneaking in the back door of the movie theater, and they'd recite in vivid Technicolor every single detail, right down to what they were wear­ing when the manager called their parents to come and get them. I hated those people who told their cute little "I remember when" stories. Okay, I know I'm not supposed to say I hate anyone, so let's just say I was con­sumed with envy, jealousy, and disdain.

How did these people do it? How could they remember all of these things? And what the heck was wrong with me, that I couldn't?

So I took a quick inventory and discovered my one-dimensional child­hood consisted of these four scintillatingly dramatic "stories":

The End

That's the short, happy childhood of Suzanne Beecher in 157 words, plain and simple. And boring, even to me.

So I accepted my fate as an adult deprived of a childhood. Or at the very least an adult deprived of those warm and fuzzy memories I should have been able to tap into when I wanted to go back home in my mind. But then it oc­curred to me that I'd always been ambivalent about going home anyway­— not only in my mind, but in my car, too. At least it seemed that way. Whenever I planned a trip to see my parents, I'd get sick. I'm not kidding! Two or three days before I was supposed to leave, an illness would consume me: wheezing, sneezing, that all-over crummy feeling. Nothing serious, a twenty-four-hour virus sort of thing—but just enough "miserable" so I'd have to cancel my trip. My recovery period was amazing. And eventually I realized there was a pattern: As soon as the "magic hour" had passed, and it was too late to go, no hope of getting back home in time for a weekend visit, I was cured.

So I asked myself: Really, what's the big deal? Who cares if I can't remember any cute childhood stories—didn't want to go back to measly podunk Cuba City, anyway. It was a stupid town, one of those blink-and­you'll-miss-it dots on the map. Cuba City meant nothing to me. My life is all about what happens to me now. Right?

But then Mrs. Creswick died. She was my girlfriend's mother. Everyone called her Purse, but I never used her nickname, or her real name, Priscilla. It seemed more respectful to address her as Mrs. Creswick.

When I heard the news that Mrs. Creswick had died, I realized I'd lost something precious from my past. Every kid needs a role model, and although I hadn't realized it at the time, Mrs. Creswick was one of mine.

I loved going to Mrs. Creswick's house because she made me feel spe­cial. She always made sure there was cottage cheese and those little cherry tomatoes in the refrigerator because she knew I loved them. Course I don't really know for sure—I was just a kid. Maybe she always had cottage cheese and tomatoes in the fridge—but she knew they were my favorite, so she'd set a plate in front of me every time I visited.

Mrs. Creswick was a great cook, and there was love in her kitchen. Whenever I got the chance, I liked to watch her make dinner. One after­noon she even taught me how to make her famous Frosted Meat Loaf. When I asked for a copy of the recipe, she helped me write it down on one of her recipe cards, along with personal tips on how not to burn the meat loaf when it was time to put it under the broiler. I still have the faded Frosted Meat Loaf recipe card today.

It was important for me to let someone know how special Mrs. Creswick had been to me. So I called her husband and my old girlfriend, gave them my condolences, and shared my childhood memory of the Frosted Meat Loaf. Then I dug out my old recipe card and started cooking. Mrs. Cres­wick would have been proud of me, because her Frosted Meat Loaf came out of the broiler just right.

Years ago I'm sure Mrs. Creswick thought she was simply giving me a recipe for meat loaf, and for a long time that's what I thought, too. But suddenly it was all so clear—the things that make me what I am today, the things I really like about myself, they all came from growing up in Cuba City. Remember the girl who was ambivalent about going home? Mrs. Creswick's meat loaf finally showed her the way.

So if a plate of cherry tomatoes and cottage cheese, and a Frosted Meat Loaf recipe could leave such a big impression on my heart, maybe there were other little things in my life that I was overlooking?

I'm a daily columnist who writes about life, and after I wrote the story about Mrs. Creswick's Meat Loaf the tone of my columns changed. I guess what really happened is I wasn't afraid to open my heart and let readers see the real me. Now I freely write about the feelings I wrestle with every day—my father's final farewell apology, embarrassing moments like the day I was trying to make a big impression but suddenly realized a lint roller was stuck to my behind, trapping Mighty Roach in the middle of the night, and how I couldn't get back in the groove after my mother died even though we'd never been close.

When I opened up my heart to readers, they opened up their hearts to me. Hundreds of people email every day and tell me their stories. In fact one woman's email, another Priscilla, inspired me to write this book...

And my reply . . .

Priscilla did make recipe boxes for her children. Unknowingly, she left a gift behind for me, too. I didn't realize it until I wrote back to Priscilla, but for years I'd been creating my own recipe box, and the stories I discovered in it inspired me to write this book.

I've picked out some of my favorite dishes and recipes from my life—the stories that help keep me grounded in this unpredictable world, like Mrs. Creswick's Meat Loaf. Stories that remind me I'm okay, just the way I am.

Recipes are meant to be exchanged, so please share my book with your friends—and substitutions are allowed. Maybe there's a Mrs. Creswick hidden away in your heart, filed away in your own recipe box? My hope is by the time you're finished reading the recipes from my life, you'll be reliving some of your own, and if you're still looking, I hope you find that missing ingredient.