Grandma Katie's Kitchen

Before we even finish backing out of the drive way, tears begin to fall from her eyes. I want to say something, but I can't. I sit quietly, staring blankly ahead. The woman driving is lost in her own thoughts. She does not acknowledge me, even though she knows I am here. Silently, I yearn to offer support and comfort. I am a reminder of her pain. She knows it, and I know it too.

Heading north on I-95, she tries to use the road to her advantage. Putting distance between her and the pain, we watch eastern North Carolina's pine trees melt into a blur in our peripheral vision with each passing mile. The growing gap does little to stop her steady stream of tears. Each tear represents a memory: a few filled with regret, and many with love.

In her tears, I see both the happiness and the pain that accompany death. Torn between smiling at a life remembered, and crying out of loneliness, her thoughts are scattered, much like random snapshots stored in a photo box left to sort out later. As is often the case, later arrives sooner than expected. Her mental images flash quickly, demanding attention now. Sobbing makes her normally hard exterior shell fade, and I begin to see the sad little girl inside.

Her first memory of Grandma Katie is in the kitchen. Granny, as she affectionately called Grandma Katie when she was three, offers the little girl a glass of tea. The little girl wrinkles her nose and politely rejects it, "I don't like tea." Attempting again, Granny assures her, "You will like my tea. It has sugar in it." In a typical three year old stubborn fashion, she whines, "I don't like teeaaaa!" with tears welling up in her eyes. As always, Granny remains kind and gently tells her, "Just try it, and if you don't like it, I will fix you something else." Hesitantly, the girl puts the cup to her lips and takes the tiniest sip. Stunned at the sweetened flavor, she drinks a little more. She smiles up at Granny, her new hero who had the power to even make tea taste yummy. It was the beginning of a life long love. Love for tea, and love for Granny.

Crossing the North Carolina border into Virginia, the woman dries her red eyes. She knows she has to stop soon, as the last opportunity to buy Bojangles Tea is exit 11b. Real southern sweet tea is impossible to find in the north. Her northern home offers tea flavored with oranges, lemon and raspberry, but none can compare to tea from Grandma Katie's kitchen. Reminding her of Dr. Suess' Green Eggs and Ham that she read to her own children, the child within surprisingly exclaims, "I do so like tea!" The tea from Bojangles soothes her grief momentarily. She smiles as she drinks the tea. She is glad she purchased an extra half gallon for the long ride ahead. However, before we hit Richmond, tears are falling again.

Granny asks her, "Do you want to see a big house?" The little girl takes Granny's hand and the pair of new friends walks to Granny's next door neighbor. Granny enters the screened porch at the back door, but the little girl stopped. Granny turned around, "Well, come on!" she encourages the child. With widened eyes the little girl urgently summons Granny by waving her tiny hand in the universal "come here" fashion. The beautiful tall woman bends down to her granddaughter's level, waiting. The girl whispers an admonishing, "You forgot to knock!" Granny hugs the girl and laughs out loud assuring her that they don't have to knock on this door. Amazed, the child realizes her Granny can do anything.

I remain silent as we pass Kings Dominion. I wonder if she will stop to eat before we hit the traffic headed into Washington DC. Spending most of my time in the kitchen, I know she hasn't eaten today. I didn't need to worry. Before we reach Fredricksburg, her stomach rumbles reminding her of its empty state. We stop in a mom and pop café and she orders a plain biscuit to go. Anxious to get back on the interstate, she quickly refills her tea and leaves the unopened biscuit on the seat beside me.

Since she is a big girl at seven, she decides granny is a baby word. She begins to say Grandma instead. Grandma agrees she is a big girl and decides its time to teach her to cook. The pair enter Grandma's tiny kitchen for the first lesson: homemade biscuits. A true born and bread southern lady, Grandma makes homemade biscuits at every meal. Breakfast, dinner and supper are not complete without a steamy pile of fresh baked biscuits heaped on her table. The little girl stands on a chair against the end of the counter and watches as Grandma pulls out the flour. She instructs the attentive little girl to add a pinch of salt. "How much is a pinch?" the girl asks, anxious to do a good job. Grandma smiles and says, "A pinch," while she playfully pinches at the little belly poking out of the girl's fashionable 1970-something halter top. Shrieking with laughter, the child jumps down from the chair and runs. Grandma yells to her, "While you are down, hand me that lard." The gooey lard, which looks nasty to the girl, goes into the flour and the fun begins. While the child kneads the doughy mixture, Grandma tells her about how she always cooked, even as a young lady. Her family owned a farm, and Grandma's chore was to cook three meals a day for seventeen people. She reminisces about getting in trouble with her father when she first started cooking. She was told to scrape the new potatoes instead of peeling them. Scraping took too long, so Grandma decided to peel the potatoes anyway. Her father whipped her for wasting so much food. The little girl listens to Grandma's story, not knowing anything about potatoes. She filed away the notion of scraping potatoes for later consideration. Right now she only thinks of the mean man who spanked her Grandma.

DC traffic slows the pace headed north on I-95. The high traffic HOV lanes are opened to southbound traffic in the afternoon, so we are forced into a stop and roll situation. At the lull, the woman opens her now cold biscuit. Pinching off a piece, she smiles at the memory. The cold lump swells in her throat. She chases it down with a big swig of tea, and returns the remaining bread to the bag. With her thoughts flying much faster than the crawling traffic, my traveling companion recalls conversations in her grandmother's kitchen.

Grandma's kitchen is her life's classroom. More than a mother, Grandma is her "grand" mother. Grandma talks to her and supports her. Grandma listens to the idle chatters of a little girl with attentive appreciation. Spring's early cucumber crop makes the best bread and butter pickles. The growing girl knows the pickles will be used later in the homemade chicken salad she and Grandma make in the ancient meat grinder. As the condensation from the pressure cooker heats up Grandma's kitchen, the pair discusses why the girl should make her bed first thing in the morning. Summer brings the dreaded corn crop, which the child hates because of the worms she runs across while shucking the ears. Grandma gently reminds her that everything can't be fun and games. Fall's wind makes pecans fall to the ground. While shelling pecans, the girl receives tips-not lectures- on manners. She learns to say hello to extended relatives when she enters a room, even when she doesn't know who they are. During Christmas breaks from school, the girl helps make homemade chocolate cakes with homemade chocolate icing. While stirring chocolate frosting one afternoon, it is Grandma who announces they are going bra shopping while the cake cools.

The tears subside as the woman wonders where the DC traffic disappeared. Did it clear beyond the drawbridge over the waters of the Virginia-Maryland border? She can't remember resuming interstate speed. The flat lands of the North Carolina coastal plains are long behind us. Virginia's two and three lane interstate have grown into Maryland's expanding six lane entrance to Baltimore without her recalling portions of the journey.

Grandma became Grandma Katie when she became a great-grandmother. The young woman's children christened her with the differentiating title. The woman adopted her children's nickname as well. Grandma Katie loves her now grown granddaughter despite her many faults. It was Grandma Katie who gave her unconditional love and support throughout her life. Grandma Katie was the one who called her out on mistakes without rubbing in her failures. The woman came to Christmas dinner with her three young children. She arrives late, a little frazzled and apologetic. Grandma Katie is as gracious as ever, inviting the young family to sit at her table. The girl shamefully makes a confession. She mistakenly forgot her bag of presents for the family. Grandma Katie laughs and tells her to fix plates for the children. Always supportive, the woman's grandmother greets the late comers with everyone's favorite foods. Hushpuppies for her grandson-in-law, collards for her granddaughter and oldest great-grandson, peas for her younger great-grandson and her great-granddaughter's much loved macaroni and cheese adorn the table in addition to the traditional Christmas feast. Grandma Katie always remembers everyone's favorite when she cooks her meals.

Exiting the Fort McHenry tunnel, the woman is surprised at the darkness outside. She doesn't remember noticing the setting sun. Through her tears, she realizes she was Grandma Katie's favorite grandchild. She supposed she has always known. Grandma Katie loved her, and made her feel special, even when she was wrong. Grandma Katie accepted and spoiled the little girl. Grandma Katie endured her selfish teenage years. Grandma Katie supported her as the young mother of three. On the darkened interstate, the woman hears her grandmother's often repeated words. She always advised, "If you promise a child something, give it to them. No matter what it is. If you promise them cake, give them cake. If you promise a spanking, give a spanking." The small smile appears from the corner of this woman's lips. She understands the meaning while recognizing her and her grandma lived in different times.

Although out-dated in her notions, the way grandmothers often seem to be, Grandma Katie remained considerate of everyone's feelings. Grandma Katie frequently went out of her way for her granddaughter. During the last visit they shared, Grandma Katie went to pick up a quart of North Carolina's distinctly different pork barbecue. Like great southern tea, real NC barbecue is the kind of thing a person won't find near Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Giving Grandma Katie a hug goodbye, the woman whispers, "I'll see you in a couple of weeks." Getting into the car, she noted the limp in her grandmother's slow steps. The woman momentarily paused at the end of the drive to wave as Grandma Katie stood still, watching her car pull away.

Two weeks later, we are in the woman's car. She continues driving north through the small state of Delaware. Glancing over at me, she finally whispers, "Almost home." I am surprised at her comment. She looks past me again, and I know she is remembering the day her own daughter found me. The look-a-like mother and daughter were out for an afternoon of Christmas shopping. The little girl excitedly exclaimed, "Oh! We have to buy this for Grandma Katie! It's perfect! Look Mama!" The woman who is crying today smiled at me back then. She picked me up for a full inspection. "This is perfect!" she agreed.

I remember being carefully wrapped in a box, and decorated with a bow. The little great-granddaughter presented me to Grandma Katie excitedly. Grandma Katie opened me with a smile. "A Boyd's Bear," Grandma Katie admired, gushing for the little girl's benefit. "Look, Grandma Katie!" she showed off my chef's hat with pride. "We got it for you because it says 'Queen of the Kitchen' just like you!" I was honored with a seat in the center of Grandma's china cabinet.

After the funeral, Grandma Katie's kitchen was buzzing with activity. People were coming into the tiny kitchen, offering condolences and food. Relatives that only came to visit on special occasions were milling around in the kitchen, opening cupboards-invading Grandma Katie's sanctuary. I saw the tears and frustration well in the woman as the looters began laying claim to her grandmother's possessions. She was shocked when she saw an uncle they hadn't seen in years pack up Grandma Katie's cordless phone with his belongings. The woman had purchased it so Grandma Katie could talk on the phone while she was cooking in her kitchen. The phone didn't really matter; yet, somehow it did matter.

The woman came back into the kitchen where aunts were evaluating Grandma Katie's cast iron pans and silverware. Aunts and cousins were simultaneously asking, "Do you want this? Can I have this?" Nodding, she walked to the china cabinet. She and I were in the car headed north before the ramblings became unbearable. I know why she took me. I was Grandma Katie's forgotten Christmas gift. I am her reminder of the love, laughter and lessons in Grandma Katie's tiny kitchen.

We slow to a safe speed on the winding roads of Pennsylvania's Brandywine Valley. Pulling into the driveway, she leaves her bags in the car. Reaching for me, she lovingly straightens my dress as she climbs the stairs. She smiles as she straightens my 'queen of the kitchen' chef's hat. Then she perches me on her own counter top. A new kitchen, but still filled with the same life and love learned in Grandma Katie's kitchen.