Enter a kitchen and honor your past. Sincerely, I believe this. Food and its preparation allow us the privilege of connecting the past with the present. If you have young children around, cooking joins hands with the future.

There are so many reasons I love to cook. Yet, none of those reasons is more compelling than the link I just described.

So overflowing are the memories of time spent in the kitchen with either my mom or a grandmother that I literally feel as if these women are often present with me when I cook. I am reminded of time with my own mother in the kitchen each my time my daughter joins me. I keenly recall following my mother around the kitchen at the end of a school day as she prepared dinner while I incessantly chattered. Once old enough, she would begin to give me directions for small tasks that I could complete to help with food preparation. I loved feeling useful and quite honestly, I anticipated the opportunity to sneak a taste -- or two or three!

I did the same thing in my grandmothers' kitchens. I would follow them about the kitchen or just sit at their table and watch them cook. Conversation seemed to flow easily as these women worked. Aromas would circulate around me and throughout the house, making their homes feel even more inviting and enticing.

This was especially true whenever I saw their mixer come out of hiding for use. Once the mixer was out on the kitchen counter, I knew something magnificent was about to be created.

My love affair with mixers dates back to my childhood. The women in my life introduced me to mixers by way of the old-fashioned hand-crank type. I cannot remember whether it was my mother or grandmother who allowed me to first use one -- I just recall the awkward feeling of trying to balance the contraption and keep it upright with one hand while at the same time, cranking the other hand in a clockwise direction.

Depending upon what I was helping to mix, I could quickly earn a red mark of courage on my hand for cranking so hard. Yet, the results had all the appeal of a magic trick. The mixer was equivalent to a magician's wand and the oven was likened to the handkerchief the magician would use in combination with the wand to "presto-chango," turn that batter into something warm and wonderful, like pancakes, muffins or cookies!

As I grew older, these hand-crank models were eventually replaced with electric mixers. Although still hand-held, they generated more torque, thus virtually eliminating the red-hand syndrome of earlier hand-powered models. Potatoes were mashed smooth in less than a minute. Eggs were beaten in seconds. Batters were blended in less time than it took to gather the ingredients. An even greater feeling of the supernatural lurked with each use. Why, it was even "cool" the way in which each beater was attached, locked into place and then removed for "easy clean-up!"

Add in the fancy addition of speeds: low, medium and high and "Lawsy-sakes," there was no stopping the women in my life who zealously made use of this modern-day apparatus.

But nothing tops the Christmas my mother got her first freestanding mixer. I can remember my grandmother handing the box over to my mother in their living room. We were seated in front of the fireplace my grandparents rarely used except for family winter gatherings. The box looked enormous. I could not imagine what my mother would need that could be contained in a box of its size.

When she pulled it out, I was transfixed. My grandmother had one of those. I never dreamed my mom would have one, too. This newer model made my grandmother's look positively antique. Now, I am not 100 percent certain my memory is reliable on this next point. It seems to me, though, that the first thing my mother made with that mixer was a special pound cake she made mostly during December for gifts for my teachers.

I later recall her talking to my grandmother by way of the phone. Our kitchen phone had one of those really long cords that allowed my mother freedom to move throughout the kitchen while she worked. While the exact wording of the conversation is lost to history, I do remember the essence of the talk was to tell my grandmother how much easier it was to mix up that cake, thanks to her new mixer.

Even now as I write these words, my mind is filled with recollections of that silver mixer and the cakes, cookies, potatoes and more that were mixed in our family kitchen. I remember the way it looked splashed with batter or little bits of potato. I also recall the way it would shine, as I would clean it up afterwards (of course, I also remember the way my mother could always find the batter splatters that I carelessly missed during my clean up).

Several years ago, my life came full circle when my husband, John, and our daughter, Madelyn, gave me a freestanding mixer for Christmas. The blades with which I mix are far different than the blades of my childhood mixers. Still, the principal is the same: prevent the red hand of mixing from occurring and smooth out the lumps in the batter.

Each time I uncover this marvelous kitchen tool, I once again unite forces with the cooks of my life: Dolores, Maxi and the now-departed Helen. They taught me how to impart love through the use of something simply called: the mixer.

If only I had a tool as wonderful as my kitchen mixer to smooth out life's lumps.

May we all connect to the loved ones of our past in the kitchen of our own home.

Stephanie Hill is a freelance writer and a kindergarten teacher at Burlington Elementary. She is also a lifelong resident of Lawrence County. She can be reached at hill992@zoominternet.net.

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Stephanie Hill/The Herald-Dispatch

Columnist Stephanie Hill's freestanding mixer is one kitchen tool that always helps her feel connected to her past and her relatives who imparted on her their love for cooking.

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