What's in a Name?

There is a cookbook that is a permanent fixture in my mother's kitchen that often laid open on the countertop next to the stove.  Her scribbled writing and doodles are scattered throughout the pages adding her own special ingredient of love to combine with the printed recipes.  Her version is now tattered, pages have come loose from the binding and a rubber band holds it closed to contain them.  I wonder if this is my grandmother's copy. Since giving permission for these stories to have life, my mind has been bombarded with so many questions to fill in the voids to my childhood memories. In lieu of my recent rapid fire style questioning approach over the phone, Mom asked me to start a list...

Question #1 - What ever came of Baba's copy of the cookbook?

Question #2 - Was the chrome and red laminate vintage table in her kitchen rectangular or square?

I digress.  Back to the story and a little bit more about my grandmother, my Baba. 

As a young child, I formed an immense adoration for both my Baba and my grandfather, who we called, Zeda, the Slovak term for grandfather.  I recall how he would smile warmly down at me and  fondly called me his, "shine shine girl".  Saying that still makes my heart beam.  My Baba would lovingly call me, "Sabinka" Both of my grandparents had distinct characteristics.  Most vividly in my mind is what I now know to be the mirrored adoration in their eyes.

My Baba's round beautiful face was most often framed with a headscarf, known as a babushka, tied under her chin.  On church days the babushka was removed to reveal a freshly fluffed hairdo garnished with a lace doily.  When she worked in the house, her timeworn floral dresses were often accompanied by hand woven sweaters with large round buttons and hand stitched aprons were tied high waisted around the skirt of her dresses that she regularly wiped her strong, weathered hands on while bustling about the kitchen. I cannot remember a time that flour dust didn't adorn it. 

Although I only had 12 years on this earth with her, she never really left my life.  The grand impression she made on my life exists still.  As I have become a grandmother myself, I have noticed her presence even more and hope to leave a lasting love impression for my grands as well.

Can someone please pass the tissues?? Ok, composing myself...and go!

Some years ago, my mother, father, aunt and uncle were able to make the trek to Slovakia together.  For my mother and my aunt, it was their first trip to the homeland of their parents, my grandparents.   Mom  brought back a version of the holy grail for me, a copy of the same Slovak cookbook.  A picture to illustrate:

I dove into the contents of the cookbook, but it wasn't until several years later that I would actually emerge on the other side enrolled in a Pastry Arts program. The day finally arrived that I was old enough to bake with my Mom! I was so excited to be able to share this special cooking connection. We were to make kolachi together in her kitchen! Memories of my Baba's kitchen swirled in my mind in anticipation. At this same time I had been struggling with where this Pastry Arts program would take me. What was in store for me at this stage of my life?

Prior to our arrival, she had transformed her dining table into baking stations equipped with butcher block boards, rolling pins, bowls of flour, pastry cutting wheels and bowls of the premade filling arranged in the middle of the table.  My sister and my nephew were there also.  As we took our places around the table, my sister proclaimed, "well isn't this just like a Baba's Bake Shop!" An overwhelming joy settled into my heart.  My sister and I exchanged knowing glances and excitement erupted as the answer to the search for a name revealed itself.  

There are still so many unanswered questions for me at this point, but one thing is for certain, my Baba is as present as ever guiding me along the path toward Baba's Bake Shop.