About 10 years ago, with December baking duties looming, my mother, Kay, who was then in her mid-80s, told us that she wasn’t going to cook anymore. The Queen Mum of holiday treats had announced her abdication. No more impeccable shortbread, lightly browned about the edges, or raisin-dotted butter tarts, tangy with a splash of vinegar, or slices of fragrant tourtière, that supremely rich Quebecois pork pie that we ate hot and doused with ketchup on Christmas Eve. My father, who had a tremendous sweet tooth and had eaten these goodies through 60 years of marriage, didn’t object, perhaps realizing that he’d had a good run. My brothers and I, and our kids, were crestfallen.
A few years later, my father died. My mother, with dementia encroaching, moved into a…
