I can visualize 3 generations of Matriarchs in your poem.
My Great-Grandmother, wearing her omni-purpose apron, kneading bread dough in the morning so that we'd have fresh bread for dinner. Never store bought.
My GrandMother, with a cup of tea nearby would be whisking a bowl of mayonnaise. Never store bought.
My Mother, with a cup of coffee nearby, adding a little bit of beet juice to a bowl of pasta salad. It added a little acidity and also made the pasta salad pink.
What amazing memories! I never met either of my grandmothers but great aunts and an elderly neighbor filled the void. I bet that homemade food was heavenly. It's almost as though the love gets transferred into the food.
My Great Grandmother lived alone at her own house until she was 99. Completely independent and healthy. Then she broke her hip and within a week she was gone. I still think that's exactly how she wanted to go.