As the holidays approach, and I spend more time in the kitchen, I think about my Granny a lot. She never claimed to be equal opportunity with the cousins and because I was a girl, I needed to learn how to do things like sew and cook.
I feel so content when I am in the kitchen. It feels like home, whether I’m in my home or not. The kitchen was the center of my house growing up, literally, all rooms led there. Because Granny lived with us, it seemed like she was always in it. In the mornings before school, I’d often find her sitting at the table slurping her coffee from a small saucer and eating a slice of something, usually cake if we had some around (I still give Granny credit when I have cake for breakfast).
Sometimes I thought it wasn’t fair that her expectations for me were unabashedly different that other cousins but I did enjoy being part what happened in the kitchen. There’s nothing fun about chopping 10 pounds of onions, celery and carrots but being a part of the action, listening to the conversation around me, mostly gossip, was good times.
This year with every bite of cornbread dressing, I will think of you Granny. Thank you for doing what you knew was right and teaching me how to cook, not just with a recipe but with my heart.