Recently, my friend Tassja wrote a blog post about food. Specifically, her post is about her experiences as a Sri Lankan vegetarian living in the omnivorous, conservative Midwest. (If you are interested in reading her article, click here.) She concluded this post with a challenge: whatever your food traditions, make your home smell like your grandma’s kitchen. Those final words resonated with me, as I’ve always felt my ancestry and family history to be important. (which hopefully my last post proved!)
My own grandmother really did have a kitchen that smelt divine and growing up, I idolized her. I have read many-a-clichéd-poem that is in tribute to grandma’s cookie jar; my own grandmother didn’t have just a “jar,” however–she had a whole freaking counter piled with goodies for me to choose from. My earliest experience with “freedom of choice” had nothing to do with abortion, religion, college, careers, or any form of activism. It was the option of a chocolate chip cookie, a slice of pound cake or an oatmeal fudge bar. This was my farm-wife grandma, on my dad’s side of the family.
My maternal grandmother I barely knew. She died when I was all of five and my only memories of her are–regrettably–not from the kitchen. She, also, is a baking legend, it would seem. A holiday can’t go by without some aunt, uncle or cousin lamenting about missing a favorite dish from her. One of her specialties was homemade donuts. Not the crappy, dry stuff you are used to from the grocery store, but hot, crispy circles–slightly misshapen–with lard still sizzling in bubbles atop the dough. It is one of those generation peculiarities that we still have her exact recipe but not a soul can make them as good as she apparently did.
When I was young, I remember telling some friends that I couldn’t wait for the joy of being a grandmother. An odd sentiment from a 12-year-old, perhaps. My friends seemed to think so, anyway; although the two agreed with me, they confusingly pointed out that first had to come the joy of being a mother. But though I nodded amiably, I was unconvinced. It seemed that the word grandma must be a woman’s crowning title. To be retired; to spend your hours on your hobbies; to have mastered the art of cooking and baking to an enviable rate; to laugh as little ones cling to your apron and beg for a treat; to enjoy and love and cuddle little babies without the anxiety of raising them. Yes, indeed. Who wouldn’t want to be a grandma?
I have a lot to live up to, though. If I ever want to have either grandmother’s kitchen, I must take Tassja’s advice and attempt it now. In my innocent selfishness, I must remember that my grandmothers were not just cooks for the grandchildren; they were cooks for their husbands, their children, their neighbors, their church organizations and co-workers, as well.
Here are some of last week’s attempts to emulate my grandmothers’ kitchens:
