My birthmother, Suzanne, came to visit last weekend and she and my daughter Franny made a gingerbread house.

From scratch.

They stood at the kitchen island, rolling out dough, cutting out walls, a roof, and a door. They used a hammer to smash Life Savers into slivers that they then turned into star-shaped stained-glass windows. They decorated the cooked dough with Dots, Sno-Caps, mini M&Ms and candy canes.

When they finished assembling and decorating, Suzanne placed a light bulb inside the house, fastened to an electric cord that she plugged into an outlet. The house lit up, its stained glass windows glowing yellow, green and purple. Heat from the bulb sent the aroma of ginger, cinnamon and cloves meandering through the air.

This ain't no store-bought, pre-packaged gingerbread house

In the corner of the dining room, I draped a green table cloth over some stacked boxes and put the gingerbread house on top. Guests at our family's annual holiday Dessert Party leaned over to inspect and admire the handiwork as Franny proudly recounted the culinary efforts behind her and her grandmother's masterpiece.

I didn't meet my birthmother until I was 20, and for years after our reunion I couldn't shake the emptiness, the ruminating over lost years and what-ifs, that I was sure meeting her would fill. In the past year, I have had the somewhat surreal pleasure of watching my daughter engage in gloriously simple activities -- cooking, swimming, flower-gathering -- with her grandmother, activities that become memories that when strung together form a sense of connection, a context for one's being, a template for how to relate.

I remember when my grandmother taught me how to make a gingerbread house. When I think of Christmas, I think of gingerbread houses, which makes me think of my grandmother.  I remember how her eyes widened as she watched me roll out the dough, how she complimented me on how carefully I spread the icing. When I grow up, I want to teach my daughter how to make gingerbread houses, and teach my daughter's daughter how to make gingerbread houses. I want to make them feel special, the way my grandmother made me feel...

Franny and Grammy Suzanne

Franny and Suzanne have an easy way with each other. They are not particularly alike, except for their fair skin and freckles, but they share the same ebullience, the same ability to immerse themselves in the moment. Watching Franny do things with Suzanne that I wish I'd been able to do with her, like make a gingerbread house, has been more healing than years of therapy ever were. I am thrilled that Franny gets the gift of being shaped by her grandmother, and I'm thrilled that she has the chance to give something as well.

One afternoon, after Suzanne got up from a nap, she led me into the guest room and pointed to the bed, where Franny's white blanket and stuffed tiger lay. "When I was lying down, a little fairy crept up and covered me with a blanket, then put this," she smiled, picking up the stuffed animal, "next to my face. I didn't want to spoil the moment for her, so I pretended to be asleep."

Suzanne's mother, Lucinda, died shortly after Franny was born. She was a gracious, elegantly beautiful woman who excelled at the traditional "women's work" of her era: cooking; entertaining; dress-making; being a devoted wife. Although I visited her just a few times, I saw something of myself in her: an unlikely blend of friendliness and emotional aloofness; long, thick hair swept off the face with a clip.

Lucinda was a doting grandmother to the four granddaughters she had watched grow up. And although our relationship wasn't typical by grandparent-grandchild standards -- infrequent visits, several letter exchanges, gifts when I married and had children -- she somehow made me feel special. She had a way of listening, of widening her eyes and smiling, of proudly pointing out things she noticed about you that you hadn't thought were remarkable.

The last time I saw Lucinda was during her 85th birthday celebration. I took Luca, just a year old at the time, to Florida and spent the weekend with her, Suzanne, and my two half-sisters. Lucinda had borrowed baby toys and spread them around her apartment for Luca, her first great-grandchild, to play with.

Lucinda always had fresh-baked desserts on hand for visitors and for this visit she had made lemon squares, which just happen to be one of my favorites. Before I left, she gave me her recipe, written in her precise script, with the signature, "from the kitchen of Grandma Lucinda" at the bottom of the recipe card.

Besides the gingerbread house, Suzanne, Franny and I made five desserts for our Dessert Party. One of them was Great-Grandma Lucinda's lemon squares. During the baking, Suzanne glanced up at me and smiled, her eyes slightly rimmed with tears. She didn't have to say anything. I knew just what she was thinking.

Great-Grandma Lucinda's Lemon Squares

Ingredients for Step 1:

1 cup butter

1/2 cup powdered sugar

2 cups flour

pinch of salt

Combine and mix with pastry blender. Pat evenly into 9x9 baking pan and bake at 350 degrees for 2o minutes.

Ingredients for Step 2:

4 eggs

2 cups granulated sugar

4 tbsp flour

1 tsp baking powder

6 tbsp lemon juice

1 tbsp grated lemon rind

Beat eggs slightly. Stir in sugar, flour, lemon juice and rind. Mix well and spread over baked crust. Bake at 350 degrees about 25 minutes. Remove from oven and sift powdered sugar on top. Cool, then cut into squares.