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We Said No Grandmothers,
but….
When we opened up the
Hidden Kitchens Hotline on NPR, we asked, we pleaded, “Please
don't tell us about your grandmother and her cooking.” We
know, it sounds harsh, cold, and heartless. Kitchens
and grandmothers. The two are inextricably linked, but
that’s what we were
afraid of. We knew if we gave grandmother stories
an inch in, the hotline would have a meltdown. It would be
a torrent, a flood, an endless sea of grandmother's and their
cookies, pies and advice. Fortunately for us, most of you
completely disregarded our plea, and called up not once,
not twice, but three times to tell us about, you guessed
it, Grandma. Here are some little kitchen stories even
the hardhearted Kitchen Sisters could not resist.
Message #38 was received at 2:40 PM, Thursday.
My
name is Douglas Weed. I have a story
to tell about my two Grandmas’ kitchens. There
was only one Grandma at a time in my family. They rarely
saw each other—didn’t particularly like each
other. I called them little Grandma and big Grandma in an
accurate reflection of the their physical sizes and the food
on their tables. They each lived in small obscure Pennsylvania
towns. Their kitchens both had those 1950 refrigerators
with the tiny metal freezer at the top and gas stoves, a
dry sink and running water. Lots of handheld devices; mixers,
peelers, the cherry pitters, spoons and ladles and sharp–very
sharp knives. Both my grandmas wore white aprons over
their housedresses when they cooked. Both went to church
and Bible school every Sunday. Both had been born just
before the turn of the last century. Both shunned written
recipes. Yet despite these similarities, my grandmas
had fundamentally different attitudes about food.
Little Gramma ate no seeds, no salt, no sugar, refused to make
sauces, would not serve jams, berry pies, berry cobbler, berry
pancakes. All meat was boiled or baked. Coarse
whole wheat bread was served with salt-free oatmeal for breakfast. Lots
of plain boiled vegetables, canned sugar free fruit for dessert. For
a little boy in the 1950s this was a tough assignment. Any
meal at little Grandma’s house was a challenge. The
solid, oh so plain food and not much of it. Big Grandma
by contrast produced dinners to die for. Her table was
covered with china serving bowls filled with chicken gravy,
gravy soaked biscuits, another with hot biscuits, two kinds
of jam, honey still in the comb, the chicken in its own bowl
and milky coleslaw, a plate of ham, fresh fruit swimming in
condensed milk. Big Grandma loved to make decorated, two-layer,
buttercream frosted cakes. Yellow, white, chocolate. You
could have whatever flavor you wanted. She once made
three different cakes for the same day. She baked pies too
and home made doughnuts. Frycakes, she called them. I
loved my Grandmas. Little Grandma was as sad and troubled
as her food was plain. Big Grandma was as happy and as
thoughtful as her table was loaded. Both lived into their 80s. Little
Grandma died depressed and a bit demented. She lingered. Big
Grandmother died of high blood pressure and diabetes. A
little artery blew up in her head. She fell to the floor
dead in mid-sentence. No surprises for either I suppose. They
died as they lived—as they cooked in their nearly identical
kitchens.
Stories: Kitchen Visionaries >
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