The floor was a weirdly speckled, sparkling blue linoleum that fascinated me as a child. There were a few cabinet doors that stuck, and one drawer that was nearly impossible for me to open, so I always asked my grandmot Magaw for help. I spent hours upon hours of my life peering over the metal wrapped Formica counters as my grandmother cooked.
Her voice was so soft and smooth, just like the dough we rolled out together when she let me help her make the homemade biscuits in the morning. Each time she would ask me, "Do you know what can this is?" It was a small, single serving Gerber can she used to cut out just the right size of biscuits. Of course, I knew, but I always wanted her to tell me again. "This was your mama's, and oh, I don't know... I just always hung onto this can, it's just perfect to cut out the biscuits." It's funny the things you remember. I can still hear the tapping of that can as she loosened up a freshly cut biscuit to place on the baking sheet.
I loved her stories as much as I loved her cooking. My favorite breakfast was always Magaw's homemade biscuits drowned in her homemade hamburger gravy. It was overly floured, stark white, and always needed salt, and I loved every bite of it. My sister couldn't stand it, which made me love it all the more. I could hardly leave the table if there were a spoonful left in the bowl.
Magaw would let me set the table, always with dish towel placemats, the jellies and jams gathered and set out. I'd pull the collection of old, gigantic Dallas Yellow Pages books out of the china cabinet and set them in the chair for a while for myself, and eventually for my younger brother - the perfect phone book booster seat. Magaw would hand me the jar of honey to bring in. She knew I'd always want honey for my one special biscuit, made of all the dough remnants after the biscuits were all cut and lined up on the baking sheet. I always got the misshapen one, and I loved it so.
I was a bit obsessed with the honey dipper, too. There was just something about dipping it in the jar of honey and watching it stream down on the biscuit. It's very inefficient compared to the pour-ready containers of today, but there was just something about it as a kid, watching honey drizzle down off that little mini beehive shaped tool.
There was a lot of sadness in my life growing up. There were moments that terrified me, would terrify any child, and many adults. There were dark secrets that weren't to be discussed. But those moments in Magaw's kitchen were among my favorite. She was fully present. She shared with me as though I was someone worth spending time with. Magaw taught me things, patiently explained steps, filled in the pauses with wonderful stories from her past. My grandmother spent time with me.
She laughed as washed her hands, and often told me the story of when my Papa convinced my somewhat naive aunt to check a certain cow every morning to see if they had morning sickness - it was the only way to know if the cow was pregnant, he said. Apparently, my aunt just watched and watched, hoping to help confirm the early signs of pregnancy. Magaw would laugh as she looked out the window, and you could see it playing out in her mind, even though they had long since moved from that old farm house.
I'm sitting here in tears now, wishing I could have just one more morning with her. She's still alive, but her memory is gone. She lives with my mom now, and we live across the country from them. Magaw doesn't remember who I am any longer. She is no longer able to tell us stories, but I still see her joy in her smile. I'm forever grateful to have her in my life. I'll never forget those mornings in Magaw's kitchen.
Siiiigh. Very nice!
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