Tables and Grandparents: Part I

When I was in elementary and middle school, my grandmother Vicki (whom I called "Ammie") picked me up from the bus stop after school a couple of times a week. I'd flop in the passenger seat, toss my backpack behind me, and feel my enthusiasm rise as I clicked the seat belt into place and heard her sweetly ask with a smile, "How about a treat?" I knew that meant that a McDonald's "Mcflurry" or Braum's chocolate ice cream cone would soon be savored.

My grandmother was many, many things: a minister, a mother, a writer, a singer; she could command a room with her tall elegance, but she often struggled to fully believe in her obvious gifts and presence. Even so, she'll never fully know (on this Earth, anyway) how fully she taught me that my voice, talents, and ideas are never things I need to apologize for; that it matters to claim and share them. Beyond her life in the church, many an ordinary meal was spent with Ammie, whether it was seated at formal place settings at the Thanksgiving table or during after-school snacks, as ice cream dripped on our chins in the car. 

In exchange for the many odd jobs my father helped with in the yard and around Ammie's house, she'd bake what our family calls a "Clara Cake." To this day, I still don't know who Clara is or why this cake recipe is named for her, but it was delicious. Her pot roast warmed and soothed parts of myself I didn't know needed soothing. Her pantry was the place I'd go for many of the snacks that weren't always available at my parents' house: Snack Wells cookies, Club crackers, potato chips.

Ammie's cooking was simple. The occasional weeknight meals I ate with her did not usually consist of anything fancier than roast chicken or beef with some simple buttered vegetables and a slice of sandwich bread. In addition to my usual staples of scrambled eggs and toast I made at home with my parents, it was in Ammie's kitchen where many of my own experiments with food and cooking began. In her old 1990s-model blender I perfected my chocolate and banana smoothie recipes. I made "French fries" (also known as raw chunks of potato barely cut with a butter knife) that I served to my great-aunt Peggy while pretend-playing "restaurant" during the summers Peggy visited her sister in Dallas. 

One summer my cousin Savannah and I decided we wanted to make homemade ice cream after Ammie showed us in a catalog a soccer ball ice cream maker one could order online: kicking it around supposedly turned the cream, sugar, ice and vanilla placed in its plastic center into thick, tasty ice cream. Savannah and I didn't have the patience to wait for such a contraption to come in the mail (nor was Ammie really interested in buying it), so we had to get creative. After stirring up the simple ingredients in a plastic bag, we cut out the top of a milk carton and placed the bag and a goodly amount of ice inside. We kicked it around the living room, clumps of Ammie's dog Libby's hair sticking to the condensation around the carton. We giggled while also uttering subtle groans of disgust at the fur now stuck to our hands, Ammie laughing at our determination to have ice cream that we. made. ourselves. And to have it as soon as possible. After thirty or so minutes of tossing this odd makeshift ice cream device around the living room, we figured it was ready. We opened the plastic bag to reveal creamy, cold vanilla goodness, and all three of us delighted in bowls of it while we watched cartoons the rest of the afternoon.

The tables we set transform us.

Through the meals and hospitality my grandmother offered, and the humble space (literal and figurative) she created for folks to be themselves, my grandmother transformed so many through her honesty and kindess.
In coming weeks, I'll be sharing snippets of learnings from her, my great-aunt Peggy, my paternal grandmother Linda, and my grandfathers (though it is unfortunate that my time with them was much shorter). I write them to answer a call somewhere inside of me to share their stories and wisdom--especially the experiences I shared with them at tables. I feel immense joy and gratitude about the reality that time gave/gives me the opportunity to spend so much time with grandparents-- a rare fact for so many people I know.