It’s been over 11 years since I stepped into my mother’s kitchen back on Long Island, but it all came flooding back the other day when I pulled out her small, olive green metal recipe box.

Our kitchen was off the living room at the back of the first floor. Standing at the kitchen sink, you could look over the backyard, to the rusty basketball hoop on the garage roof and our baseball field just over the forsythia bushes. My mom called us from that spot countless times. I wish I had a picture of her standing watch at that window, but it’s probably best remembered in my mind.

Back in her prime, Joan Batura was your quintessential suburban homemaker, busily tending to the needs of her husband and five children. She had been a secretary to the president of the Equitable Life Insurance Company in New York City before motherhood but left office work for the rigors of domestic management when we arrived.

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It occurred to me recently that with a 16-year gap between the oldest and the youngest (me), my parents had kids in the home for 40 years.

Four decades is a long time to have children under your roof, but it’s especially lengthy if you think of it in terms of meal preparation. Given kid’s pesky penchant for eating several times per day, that’s tens of thousands of meals – even if you go out for the occasional special event.

There are so many wonderful things I could tell you about my mom, from her kind spirit and fierce curiosity to her sympathetic ear and deep Christian faith. You might expect me to include her being a good cook on that list, but it just wouldn’t be true.

In fact, coming from an Irish family, we used to joke that my mother’s definition of a seven-course meal was a six-pack and a potato. We were exaggerating, of course (my mom only drank wine), but cooking was utilitarian to her – a necessary chore to keep the gang happy and fed.

She made all the classic staples that make today’s nutritionists cringe and kids cheer – meatloaf and mashed potatoes, spaghetti and meatballs, lasagna, hot dogs, baked beans and macaroni and cheese. Then there were English muffin pizzas on Friday nights during Lent.

Anything beyond that standard fare made my mother a little nervous. She was comfortable in a library or at her typewriter, but not in the kitchen. The index cards and clippings (from newspapers and magazines) inside her metal box were recipes for meals outside her comfort zone. They’re all very detailed with step by step instructions.

There’s a neatly typed card titled, “Chicken for Company” – diced and breaded chicken served in a mixture of mushroom and celery soup. As the name would imply, this was my mom’s “go-to” when people came over for dinner. She served it with cheesy scalloped potatoes and rice pilaf.

What I really remembered, though, as I looked at the card, is sitting at the dining room table and having to learn to converse with our guests, something which initially petrified me. We were instructed to be inquisitive and not filibuster with our own observations and opinions.

“You never learn anything while you’re talking,” my mom liked to remind us.

Whenever my parents would excuse themselves to clean up from dinner and prepare for dessert and coffee, I was asked to stay and “entertain” our friends. In retrospect, my parents gave me a great gift with that assignment. To this day, I love to sit and talk with people over meals, especially folks I barely know. I enjoy asking questions and learning about them and their perspectives.

Another card - “Easter Sunday Brunch Casserole” – is a simple egg dish comprised of sausage, bacon and bread. Like many mothers of that era, mine made lots of casseroles, but this particular one jumped out at me because it reminded me of the Easter she made it but forgot to turn the oven on after putting it in to cook.

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Brunch became more like dinner that year, but none of our guests seemed to mind.

I think one of the things I love about the recipe cards, though, is seeing so many of them in my mother’s handwriting. For so many years, I would see it in notes and cards, but now no more – until I crank open the lid of the box.

It’s curious how we inherit so many physical and even temperamental traits from our parents, but not their handwriting. Like fingerprints, everyone’s is different, sometimes by a little and other times by a lot. A year ago, I received a letter from someone with penmanship like my mothers. That it put such a lump in my throat showed how much I’ve missed her these last years.

But flipping through the recipe box, I’m reminded once again just how fleeting family time can really be. Food consumes a lot of our attention and efforts – planning, buying, preparing and consuming it – but my mom was right - food is utilitarian.

What truly lasts are the memories of the people we were with while enjoying the meal. It’s the substance of the conversations and the lessons and legacy passed from one generation to the next.

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With everything going digital these days, and recipe boxes and cookbooks fading fast, what physical remnant will our kids and grandkids have to remember the meals of their youth?

Let’s hope and pray they recall the kindness and affection exhibited around the table.

Maybe if we spent more time eating and visiting together than we did in our virtual worlds online, we’d be happier and better connected.

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Despite all the challenges surrounding us these days as a nation, we need to leave time to break bread together and laugh with the people we love.

Now that’s a recipe my mother knew by heart.

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