When I decided to make a pot roast for Sunday dinner, I knew what I wanted alongside it: the soft homemade dinner rolls Grandma Viola used to serve.

Before I went looking for the recipe, I checked with Aunt Mary Anna and Uncle Frank to make sure they wouldn’t mind me sharing some of Grandma’s recipes on the blog. Aunt Mary Anna said she didn’t mind at all. Uncle Frank said, “Sure, keep grannyma’s memory alive.”

That stayed with me as I cooked today.

Grandma Viola was one of the most inspiring people in my life. She kept the farm going and cared for the children while my grandfather, Stanley, worked as a miner in Utah. When he died in a plane crash, my dad was eight years old. Grandma was left with six children, ranging in age from five to fourteen: four girls and twin boys.

She raised her children, took care of the home, and worked outside the home to keep everything together. I think about how much that must have required of her, especially now that I’m old enough to understand more of what she carried.

Her bread recipe made eight loaves at a time. With six growing kids to feed, I suppose anything less wouldn’t have lasted very long. She made cinnamon rolls and jelly, too. She milked the cows, and the milk and butter were fresh. She knew every one of her cows, who their parents were, and which calves belonged to them.

Some of my fondest childhood memories are of being at her house with my cousins. I remember drinking fresh cow’s milk from aluminum glasses and eating homemade bread with butter and jam. That is still one of my favorite things to eat. Something so simple can bring back so much.

I couldn’t find a separate dinner roll recipe, although Aunt Mary Anna told me Grandma used her bread dough. Eight loaves’ worth was a little more than Len and I needed, so today I tried another recipe and made a dozen rolls. They were good, though they weren’t quite the texture I remembered. Sometime, I’ll scale down Grandma’s recipe and try again.

Tonight we had pot roast, mashed potatoes, homemade rolls, and garlic butter broccoli. As I put dinner together, I kept thinking about growing up and all of us sitting around the table, eating together. I wanted those rolls because I remembered how they tasted, but I also remembered where I ate them and who was there.

My memories of Grandma aren’t all of her working. In the afternoons, she would sit down to watch her shows and crochet. I have one of her afghans, and I still snuggle under it. After all these years, something she made with her hands is still keeping me warm.

I also have a couple of her crochet patterns that I’m going to share with Robin, the crocheter in my family. And I have recipes that I’ll share here over time, once I sort through them—and perhaps do a little math on those eight loaves of bread.

Today, though, I mostly wanted to write about Grandma.

I wish I could sit at her table again, with my cousins nearby, an aluminum glass of milk, and a slice of her homemade bread spread with butter and jam. Tonight’s dinner brought those memories close, and I’m glad Uncle Frank reminded me to share them.