My gosh!” I thought with a start. “I’m 47 years old, and I have yet to make a pot of soup or stew from scratch...!”Suddenly, the cardboard containers filled with gourmet food nestled in my passenger seat next to me seemed almost obscene. I felt as if I had been blessed with a wonderful legacy.

The following day, I rummaged through the attic searching for a cardboard box that had been stowed away. Thirty years ago, that box had been given to me when Gram decided to move from the old homestead. I vaguely remember going through my “inheritance” as a teen. Every granddaughter had received a pocketbook; mine was a jewelled evening bag, circa 1920. I remembered I carried it at my college graduation. However, being a headstrong teen at the time of my “inheritance,” I never really bothered with the rest of the contents. They remained sealed in that same box, buried somewhere in the attic.

It wasn’t that difficult to locate the box, and it was even easier to open it. The tape was old, and gave way easily. Lifting the top, I saw Gram had wrapped some items in old linen napkins — a butter dish, a vase and at the very bottom, one of her old soup pots. The lid was taped to the pot itself. I peeled back the tape and removed the lid. At the bottom of the pot was a letter, penned in Gram’s own hand: My darling Barbara, I know you will find this one day many years from now...While you are reading this remember how much I loved you... — Beliefnet.com