She never had a dishwasher. Never had marble countertops. Never even had painted cabinets.
Tell her what she didn’t have and she’d be too polite to offend you, but she’d be thinking, ‘I used to draw my kitchen water from a well…I had a hatchet by the wood pile, to feed the woodstove…seems like just the other day we got electricity…’
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Lunch Was Dinner and Dinner Was Supper and French Was The Language
Her kitchen faced south, with a window over the sink, a view of the back yard, barnyard and a small pasture edged with trees. As you entered from the carport, first thing, her stove, on the left, where she cooked at least one hot meal a day, every day, and by every day, I mean Every Day. (My father was about old enough to vote before he ever ate at a restaurant.)
After the stove, some cabinets, upper and lower, then the sink, about 500 pounds of ole timey cast iron, with a drain board. To the right of the sink another set of uppers and lowers before the wall turned north, towards the frig.
In those cabinets were country people basics, black iron skillets and pots, a set of Magnalite, everyday plates, a few platters, a few things that were sentimental from her mother’s kitchen, some Tupperware, mismatched coffee cups, the survivors of chips and breaks, basic silverware, and my grandfather’s old U.S. Army spoon, a near shovel of a spoon, circa WWI, which he preferred for his cornbread ‘n milk in the evenings.
A few yards from her kitchen counter, was the maple kitchen table, which my brother now has. Centered on the table was a cookie jar, with a cat on the lid, and next to that a little woodpecker on a ceramic log that contained toothpicks, everything atop a little white doily.
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My grandfather’s spot was to the east, with his back to the kitchen doorway. My grandmother’s spot was on the south, with her back to the sink. When I was a little kid they put me in between them, on a red kitchen stool/ladder, where she cut my meat for me. When I got older, if nobody more senior than me was there, I sat on the west end, with my back to the frig.
We ate rice ‘n gravy. When I say rice ‘n gravy, I don’t mean Often, I mean every day. They were farmers; nobody bought rice at the store; you ate what you raised. She kept about fifty pounds in a big lard can, in the little mudroom off to the east of the kitchen. And there was always a meat. Might be from a calf they’d slaughtered, or sausage from the Laughlin’s IGA grocery store in Elton.
For a treat she’d make muffins. She made homemade root beer. My favorite treat was rice ‘n rolls, actually “rising rolls”, but as a kid I thought everything in that kitchen except the meat must come from rice.
It was traditional Cajun: the men washed up outside, an enamel pan atop a stump, a license plate nailed to the stump for a soap holder, and that soap was Lava, and sorely needed. They dried their hands on an old towel that hung from a nail, then they came in, sat down and my grandmother would fix their plate and bring it to the table in order of status, guests before my grandfather, and then us, by age.
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She Was The Shortest Adult
Young boys can’t wait to grow up. A constant in my memory is watching her at the sink, washing out a single coffee cup, and stirring spoon, her tip-toeing to see out the kitchen window, looking for my grandfather, or my uncle.
One day we were side by side, and she looked at my head and I looked at hers, and she said, “My, you gettin’ big like me!” I guess that put me at nearly 5 feet. But we were peers now, at least in the ability to see out her sink window…
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Her kitchen was the heartbeat of the home. My grandfather had his routine. They’d been married since before sliced bread, and they both got more routined as they aged. Just about the time the coffee pot quit making noise the back screen door would open, and there he was. I think of him as My grandfather, but he really was Her husband. My goodness, what a fine marriage, like two old caterpillars on a leaf, peace today, peace tomorrow, peace till death do us part.
Her oldest son, my Uncle Daniel, was a regular in the kitchen. He was born on this road, raised on this road, left once, for WWII, and then came back and bought the property just down the road. He’d often come by in the afternoon.
She loved when her boys dropped in. Uncle Daniel would come in from that side door, head for the coffee pot. He’d stand, lean up against the sink, blow some of the heat away from the cup, and they’d talk French. I’m sure it was small talk. She hadn’t left the house, and he’d been walking rice levees all day…there’s not much to report unless you shoveled a water moccasin that come swimming towards you…
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The Biggest Job In The Family
She was such a maw maw. No makeup, not ever. No painted nails. Her gray hair up in a little bun. Always in an apron. She had a sixth grade education. Her literature was a TV Guide that came once a week and fundraising brochures from Third World orphanages.
As small as she was, as unsophisticated, never a teller, always a listener, she was What Held The Family Together. She was the sponge of all the family gripes. Her sons could complain about their wives, her daughter-in-laws could complain about her sons, and there it stayed, in confidence.
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There Came A Thanksgiving
I was Mr. College now. I thought I’d really done something, to leave the sticks and head to the Big City. That’s the way it goes, you gotta leave to know what you left.
I came home one Thanksgiving. My little grandmother, so tiny. Nobody knew cancer was coming. She kissed me on the cheek.
I looked around the room. She had two sons, and five grandchildren. The room was filled with simplicity, sincerity, and no-airs honesty, something the Big City made me realize was not common. She’d made it all happen, doing it the old way, without Oprah, without fads. She just followed her heart: hold steady, aim high, mean well, try hard, pray a lot, keep at it, do it again tomorrow…
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There Was Church In My Grandmother’s Kitchen
My grandmother’s kitchen was orderly, basic, respectful and honorable. Grace before every meal, short and sweet, short and meant. No loud voices, no anger, a little gossip but not mean spirited, and never in front of children…
Like so many things, her kitchen was a gift to my childhood, and because it was Always I just assumed that it would remain Always. But she died, many decades ago. I have yet to find a better kitchen. I couldn’t care less about Pearly Gates and Streets of Gold, but if heaven is heaven, then I’ll be eating Maw Maw’s rice ‘n gravy once again, and finally feel qualified to drink grownup coffee with her….
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This edition of Uncle P’s Bedtime Stories is brought to you by Eighty-one, which hopes you appreciate what you got while you got it…and hopes you make your own kitchen something worthy of a story, long after you’re gone…
People with nice things to say can say them at 81creativity@gmail.com.
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