Monica Comas Novelist
Journalist
Avid Cook

Everyone has a season where remembrance weighs heavily. For me, it’s autumn.

Autumn is the time of year when my beloved mother, my grandmother, and our sweet pup passed away. While they might not physically be with me anymore, they’re also not gone—their indelible hand and paw prints are everywhere in my life. But even so, I’ll be honest…this time of year is tender. Perhaps a certain season lands on you similarly.

Recently, someone gave me a piece of advice for how to walk through these days—it was to make room for all of it, the melancholy as well as the happy, because the full spectrum of emotions can bubble up around anniversaries of loss.

I started thinking about dimensions of remembrance, and how we savor the richness of memories. My thoughts drifted to the flavors we’re drawn to, the ones that make us feel tethered to loved ones. I probably think about food more than the average bear, granted, but food has always been tightly linked to memory for me.

Take my mom. She adored chocolate chip cookie dough (far more than baked cookies) and Pierrre’s coffee ice cream. I think of her legendary mashed potatoes, and her pecan tassies, which she used to make countless batches of during the holidays. The last time we made tassies together, I took pictures of her recipe having no idea that it would be the final time we’d bake together. I think of how my mom adored her morning coffee while watching birds, and the afternoon cappuccinos I’d make her. She loved my grandmother’s stuffing. Loved might not be a strong enough emotion—if you ever had my grandma’s stuffing, you’d understand. And that same stuffing reminds me of my gram so much that every holiday when I make it, I wear one of her scarves in my hair.

And so, in the spirit of autumn and remembrance, I’m leaning into the tastes that draw me closer to those I love. My mom’s tassies have been top of mind lately. I wasn’t sure how I’d feel making them again, but mixing the filling, shaping the dough, and having the apartment fill with the aroma of freshly baked tassies was honestly…uplifting. It brought me back to the last time I baked them with my mom, and to all the times as a kid she’d make them. Putting my own tassie pan to use made me feel closer to her. Tassies had always been a treat, but now, they feel like a gift.

These tastes that take us back, they add to the depth and richness of remembrance. Maybe they’re cherished family recipes, or a shared ritual like morning coffee. Or maybe it’s takeout that you always enjoyed together—Blizzards from Dairy Queen, or Big Macs from McDonald’s. My point is, regardless of what form your cherished dish takes, these flavors enjoyed with loved ones have a way of lingering with us in the very best way.

And those tastes, I’ve found, can hold a steadying, connective power…just when we need it most.