As I stand in my grandma’s kitchen, memories flood around me as thick as flies at a picnic. I stood at this counter on the old red kitchen stool, a feedsack apron, just my size, wrapped around my waste as I helped Grandma cook lunch for the field hands when the strawberries came on. She wouldn’t let me pick because I stepped on the runners and more got in my mouth than in my basket. She cooked lots of wonderful, wholesome foods fresh from the garden. We canned, pickled, dried, and preserved everything we could get our hands on or glean from the garden. When I’m washing dishes at the sink, I can hear the laughter filter down through the years when everyone gathered at Grandma’s table to break bread and count blessings. When I cook at her stove, I remember the way she took a couple of quarts of roast beef out of the cellar, dredged the chunks in flour, salt, and pepper and fried them in whatever fat was available. She never could make a gravy without lumps. That and pie crusts were the bane of her existence. She bragged about my pies and bread when I came home for visits. That was her way of asking me to bake for her.
She always made me a special apple pie when I came home. A single crust, folded over like a turnover with very little apple filling because she understood my love for the crispy, slightly salty pastry. One year she walked slower to the kitchen. Her bent and worn hands slowly worked over the dough and she painfully pared the apples. It was the first time I really noticed her aging. She finished the pie, set it out to cool and watched with delight as I dug in. She caught my eye and I put my fork down, waiting for what I knew in my heart would come some day.
“Eat that slow, pet…and enjoy it. It’s the last one I can make. Grandma’s old hands just don’t work like they used to.”
We sat in silence for a bit, each contemplating the weight of her words. Me in my prime. She in her final years. I ate my pie slowly, savoring each wonderful bite, knowing it would be my last. Understanding the gift…the many gifts she gave me. Loving her for being mine. Hating Father Time.
She would have loved this sign that I brought from my own kitchen in Colorado. The privilege of living on her farm is not lost on me and I will relish every moment I can be here. <3