I had all the ingredients.
Even during this crazy time where flour and eggs (!) are in a tight supply.
I had her recipe. My grandmother's beautifully handwritten recipe. Well, I had a photo of it.
Good enough.
It was something so ingrained my childhood memories. I can still taste it now.
Yet, I found myself sitting at my kitchen desk, immobilized. Tearful. Afraid.
I'm not an advanced baker, but definitely not a novice. I could definitely do it.
I was paralyzed with the fear that it wouldn't come out as perfect as hers.
So I didn't make the Easter bread. Rather, I couldn't.
Instead, I savored what I could - her handwriting, and memories of the bread she so lovingly prepared for me and my brother every Easter.
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