Listen to thisHolidays were always happy times for me as a child, smelling the turkey roasting, eyeing the tempting desserts, seeing all bright colorful salads. There was always carrot raisin salad, made with carrots that were so very orange.
My grandmother was a vital part of my life growing up and during the holidays she was the ruler of the kitchen. She would always have on an apron that boasted of the season. At Thanksgiving it would feature Pilgrims feasting on their meal or at Christmas a Santa bringing presents down the chimney. If you looked closely at the apron, you could see remnants of grease stains from a previous feast.
Grandmother, a tall stately woman with big brown eyes, would stand by my side each year and teach me a wonderful new recipe. When she would instruct me, she would recite the ingredients: she never wrote anything down since she had most of her recipes memorized.
Her soft voice would tell me step-by-step instructions, reaching over to help me stir when my small hands would tire. She would never become angry if I made a mistake, but would quickly remedy the situation and continue.
Grandmother’s kitchen was a warm and inviting place. Bright colorful curtains hung from the windows, usually with purple flowers embroidered on the hem. It always smelled of something baking. Chocolate chip cookies fresh from the oven, or an apple pie made with apples plucked from her tree.
Grandmother’s colorful kitchen was where I learned to make her flaky, tender pie crust. She never used boxed ingredients, she baked everything by scratch. When I was about 8 years old, she taught me her “secrets” to making the crust; always have the water icy cold and the shortening should be firm to the touch, never mushy. She would smile when watching me measuring the water carefully so as not to spill a drop. My hands would dip the spoon into the icy cold water pouring the liquid into the flour. She would always tell me, “Never use a spoon to mix the crust, but use a fork. If you use a spoon, you will not blend the flour with the shortening.”
We had a game we played whenever we would peel the apples for her wondrous apple pie. We would take a sharp paring knife and, beginning at the top of the apple, we would see how long we could make the peel without breaking the string.
Each year as I got older the recipes got more complex. When I was about twelve years old Grandmother let me make the gravy for Thanksgiving. She carefully set out all the necessary supplies. On the counter beside the stove she placed the flour, turkey scrapings and milk. Grandmother was a tough teacher. She looked at me and said, “Go ahead and make the gravy.”
I was anxious, trying to copy the steps that I observed many times before. I put the flour in the pan over a low heat, or a least I thought it was low. How quickly that flour browned! I then put in some of the turkey scrapings and stirred. After pouring the milk into the pan I glanced at Grandmother for reassurance. What I got back was a small smile. I couldn’t tell if it was good or bad. When I finished I was so proud of my gravy which, unfortunately, looked more like cement. But what I saw in the pan was a thick, brown, glob. As tears ran down my face Grandmother gently wiped my sadness away, saying that everything was going to be ok. She then, as always without a word, corrected the disaster.
My proudest moment was when Grandmother taught me how to make her banana bread; I was about twelve or thirteen years old at the time. She let me smash the bananas, which I thought was great fun, and let me follow one of the few receipts she had written down. Together we mixed the ingredients, she taking over after I got tired. She had an electric mixer but would rather mix things by hand. After we put the loaf into the oven, I thought it would never get done. Opening the oven door to remove my first banana bread was the first time I knew what the word success felt like.
As she aged, it became more difficult for her to peel and slice the apples for her pie. Even with her wrinkled, tired hands she would not use anything other than her old silver paring knife. I tried to convince her into purchasing an electric apple peeler, but being the stubborn woman she was, she would have nothing to do with it. She said that nothing beats a strong pair of hands.
This was so many years ago, but when I make an apple pie and smell the rich aroma of cinnamon I remember the wonderful days with grandmother. Grandmother passed away in 1992 and I have since lost many of her receipts. There are times when I yearn for the chance to pick up the phone and ask her advice about cooking.
It’s the holiday season again, with the smells of baking wafting though the house. The sweet smells of apple pie lingering in the air. Grandmother is no longer with me, but she is still looking over my shoulder watching the once small child that has become a grandmother herself. There will come a day when I will proudly pass to my granddaughter the secrets my grandmother taught me.
