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.