A Granddaughter's Blog -- Memories of Home

I have often wondered where my love for -- my addiction to -- food came from? Thinking back now, I have realized that it was cultivated long before the first time I watched a Mexican woman go to the market to prepare a chicken soup for her family on Sesame Street, or I watched my first episode of The French Chef on PBS. Yes, long before I even knew memories were being formed, I was being taught by my grandparents to seek -- to accept no less than -- the freshest of ingredients. And that is the basis for all great recipes -- the ingredient -- the beginning of everything delicious. I guess if you think of it that way, I, too, am an ingredient. And this is my beginning.


Nanny was my maternal grandmother. On most days, she was more of a mother to me than my own mother was or ever cared to be. Most of the good memories of my childhood revolve around my Nanny and my Papaw. (Why do Southern children bestow such names on our grandparents?)

My grandparents were married 64 years. I, honestly, do not know how they did it. My Papaw was a real handful and really kept my Nanny on her toes, but she loved him, and would have done anything for him. They had run away and gotten married when she was 16. Her father had forbidden that she see him, so in true teenage rebellion, she ran off and married him. I can't even express how much I miss them.

Nanny wasn't the only one Papaw kept on her toes, he kept us all on our toes! I grew into quite a few of his "ways", as my children I am sure can confirm. I, too, always complained of them leaving the light on in an empty room, leaving the door open too long when the A/C was on, or God forbid!, touching the thermostat!

I remember when I was growing up, Papaw would get up very, VERY early to cut the grass (mowing the lawn is for city slickers) and he would always wake me up (it WAS the Summer after all!) with the sound of the mower. I remember I would get up, leave my house, and walk to theirs. (My parents lived two houses over from my grandparents, and the only house in the middle was my mother's sister.) I would still be in my nightgown, sleepy eyed I'd walk through the dew that was still on the ground and the freshly cut grass would stick to my feet. It's still one of my favorite things to do, of course, the wonder of it all was lost on my Nanny who would scream, "Wipe your feet! Don't track that grass through the house, I just vacuumed!" I would wipe my feet (making sure to get all sides) and walk into their house. Nanny and Papaw's house smelled like Heaven early in the morning! The smell of coffee and bacon hung heavy in the air like Spanish Moss hangs from Cypress trees. I still love that smell in the morning -- it smells like home.

When I was very small, my grandparents raised hogs, for bacon, and pork chops. We ate deer, rabbit and squirrel. My grandparents had a weekend place on the river and my Papaw had a trotline. When he brought in his catch, I never left his side, I was so mesmerized by the process of scaling and skinning. The sight of an eviscerated animal has never bothered me -- just a fact of life.

In the Summer, my Papaw had a HUGE vegetable garden, it was his pride and joy. He'd work in that garden all day! I have gotten into trouble so many times for picking the largest, reddest, most beautiful tomato off the vine and eating it like an apple while it was still warm from the Sun. Of course, I could never deny I had done it, the juice running down my arm was always a dead giveaway. I had a knife in my hand by the age of 6, helping my Nanny prepare foods for canning, or as she called it, "Putting up". One year, I remember, we "put up" over 80 quarts of tomatoes, alone. She canned, at least, three kinds of homemade pickles, sauerkraut, squash, green beens, you name it. We canned so much, there would be food in every closet, so much so that there would not be room for clothes. Then we'd put food under all the beds. After we had filled every room, every nook and cranny, then we filled the freezer.

When my Nanny got older, she even passed the torch of Thanksgiving Day Dinner preparation to me. (This meant a LOT because I was not the oldest cousin, and I felt somehow, I had won the lottery!)

[Now, if you are from the North, you may get lost here, so I will give you a crash course on something very Southern. Pay attention, now! There is stuffing, and then there is dressing. Stuffing is cooked INSIDE the turkey. Dressing is NOT. Got it? Good.]

My Nanny's dressing was like a religious experience! (No, I am NOT making this up!) She taught me how to make it, and when she thought it was good enough (I had to audition several times before this happened), *I* became the Dressing Maker for Thanksgiving. (See? I did win the lottery!)

Nanny and Papaw didn't have a lot of money. They couldn't buy us everything we wanted, so they showed us they loved us through food. I don't even know if they knew they were doing it, to be quite honest. I find myself doing the same thing now, if I love someone and they mean the world to me, I am always trying to feed them!

When I lived out of state and Nanny knew I was coming for a visit, the question would always be the same, "What do you want me to cook?". My answer was always the same. Fried chicken (I still don't know what she did to make it THAT good!), homemade mashed potatoes, milk gravy, and yeast biscuits! When I'd get home, it would all be there. Before you ever reached the door you could smell those amazing smells!! And then you walked in and splayed out everywhere -- food as far as the eye could see, it covered every available surface in the kitchen.

She always made too much, just as I do now. No matter who you were, when you walked into my Nanny and Papaw's house the first thing she would always ask was, "Are you hungry?", then she would go down the list, lifting pot lids as she went along. There was this, this, this, this and that! "Fix you a plate!"