My Grandma's Kitchen

Author's note: This is my interpretation of notes given to me by my daughter. This is our time to remember.

Maxine Burton Cather
April 14 , 1920 - March 4, 1999

If I could revisit one day in my life, it would be a day in my grandma’s kitchen. If only I could travel back in time to let her know how much I appreciated the time I spent there. I want to watch her, document every movement with my mental camera, remember her scent, hear her laugh one more time, absorb her into my soul. Grandmothers should be treasured, time with them cherished, every precious moment. Unfortunately, I didn’t realize that until it was too late.

It was June of 1984. School was out for summer vacation. I would be spending the next two months in middle-of-nowhere Illinois, on my grandparent’s farm.

I was jerked awake, in what I perceived as the middle of the night, by the sympathetic voice of the radio announcer, “Grace Jones, age 83, passed away Thursday. Funeral services will be at the Toledo Christian Church, with burial in the Mt. Zion cemetery. Darren Barton, age 79, passed away Friday, arrangements are incomplete at this time.” The volume was so loud it vibrated the walls in my room. I looked at the bedside clock, and pulled the covers over my head. It was only seven o’clock.

My grandparents were early risers and I was a late sleeper, which wasn’t a good combination. Grandpa began each morning listening to the obituaries on the radio. I think Grandpa must have been hard-of-hearing. He always turned the volume up loud enough for the neighbors to hear, should they choose to listen, and the nearest house was across a wide field. To me the radio was an irritating, blabbering noise. I didn’t understand why his morbid curiosity was more important than my sleep.

Even without Grandpa’s radio program, there was still too much noise to sleep. There was the stomp, stomp, stomp of Grandma’s heavy footsteps, the rattle of dishes, and the sharp clang of the pans she used to cook breakfast. I’m sure Grandma was making noise, secretly hoping I would wake up and find my way to the breakfast table. She liked to have visitors in the kitchen while she cooked.

The aroma of a homemade breakfast floated down the hallway to my room, making my stomach growl hungrily. Every morning, Grandma fried eggs and ham, made oatmeal, and brewed coffee. Or if your preference was for cold cereal, a box of Post Toasties could be found in the center of the breakfast table.

“Mac,” bellowed Grandpa. “Get me some coffee.”

Times had changed for most women, they worked outside the home and even voted, but someone forgot to tell Grandpa that wives were no longer considered the property of their husbands. Today’s women are not submissive, but Grandma didn’t know that. She obediently followed her husband’s orders, never refusing his requests.

Wide awake, I threw back the covers and angrily climbed out of bed. I put on a pair of grubby jeans and a t-shirt. No need to dress up in this God-forsaken part of the world. I looked in the mirror, disgusted by my farm-girl appearance. This would not be acceptable attire in Dallas.

I pulled back the faded green curtain that covered the opening to the bedroom. Perhaps if Grandpa had sprung for a real door I could have slept later. The hallway was covered in yellow and red patterned carpet, probably from a clearance roll at the carpet discount store. No one else would have spent good money on such a garish pattern. The walls were covered in a gray paneling, which had gone out of style along with the granny dresses and tie-died t-shirts my mom still had tucked away in a box somewhere. At the end of that hallway was my favorite place in the world, my grandmother’s kitchen.

My grumpy attitude faded into a smile when I saw her. She didn’t know I was watching, as she broke eggs into a cast iron skillet. That skillet was probably older than my Mom. Well, maybe not quite that old, but it was old.

I tip-toed to the table, and quietly pulled out a chair. The sizzle of eggs frying in the skillet covered my clumsiness. A gentle wind ruffled the fabric of the white cotton curtains bordering the open window. It promised to be a hot summer day, with nothing to do, yet somehow it was never boring at Grandma’s.

Grandma looked up, smiling when she saw me. Always eager to please, she cooked my favorite foods when I came to visit, “Would you like an egg this morning? How about a piece of ham?”

“No thank you. I’ll have oatmeal.”

I still don’t understand how she magically turned lumpy gruel into a bowl of delicious comfort. I’ve tried to duplicate her sweet, creamy version of oatmeal for years, and still can’t get the taste or texture quite right. Her oatmeal was definitely out of the ordinary. I loved being pampered. My mother was usually too busy to cook breakfast. She was a single mother, already at work by the time my alarm went off. All too often, it was Captain Crunch for me.

After breakfast, Grandpa usually had something to repair: the car, a tractor, the lawnmower, or something on the house. He loved to tinker, and he could fix anything. It didn’t necessarily look new, or even normal, but it would work just fine.

As the screen door banged shut behind Grandpa, Grandma gave me a choice, “Do you want to wash or dry?”

As always, I chose dry. Drying dishes was easier than scrubbing that crusty skillet. As we worked, Grandma told stories from when my mom was a little girl, and I told her about my life in Dallas. We always had something to talk about.

When the kitchen was clean, she asked, “Now what would you like to do?”

“Bake a pie,” I answered, and Grandma got out the ingredients to teach me how to make my own pie.

I still can’t make a pie like Grandma’s. She didn’t measure anything. She would add a handful of this, a pinch of that, and then she would knead the dough until it “feels right”.

After supper, which was really dinner, we took our dessert outside. Grandpa sat in a lawn chair, while Grandma and I sat in the wooden swing. We ate pie and listened to Grandpa tell stories from when he was a little boy.

Those days are gone, but will never be forgotten. I wish my children could experience a summer in middle-of-nowhere Illinois, on my grandparent’s farm. If only. If only I had realized then, what a gift those summers were. If only I could have one more day in Grandma’s kitchen. If only I could…I would tell her.

Story ID:	1900
Written by:	Betty (BJ) Roan (bio, link, contact, other stories)
Story type:	Family Memories
Writers Conference:	$500 2007 Family Memories Writing Project
Location:	Lerna IL USA
Year:	1984
Person:	Maxine Cather