WHAT I LEARNED FROM BAKING WITH MY GRANDMA

As you know, I love to bake.  I especially like to lick the bowl.

I first started baking just to piss off my mom, because the kitchen got really dirty.  I always cleaned up, but at times our avocado-green hand mixer went berserk, and golden droplets of cake batter would spray across the kitchen walls.   I just happened to miss a few when I cleaned up.

Then when I was in 4th grade, my dad's mother came for a visit, and I hit the jackpot. She had recipes from "the old world" (a/k/a Syracuse, New York), and wanted to share them with me.  Yes, me.  

Suddenly, I was up on a stool, by her side, holding things like whisks, a sifter (that reminded me of a piece of farm machinery, with its sweeping silver arm that looked remarkably like a hay thresher; remember, this was Wisconsin), and spatulas.  How could such magnificent culinary implements exist in our ordinary home?  

Then came the apron. First I saw the lace; then I saw the long, diaphanous  ties.  It was so beautiful, I figured it had to be something for me to wear to  church.   But no.  I was actually supposed to get it dirty, and have fun doing it!  Was this some kind of epicurean joke?

Things got even better.  My grandma and I decided to make a chocolate cake. As she added the rich, Dutch cocoa powder into the mixing bowl, I could see the chocolate particles dance, like fairies, on the rays of light from the window beyond.  That's the first time I ever experienced magic, firsthand.  I was captivated.  

A few days later, she taught me how to make chicken and dumplings.  Comfort food personified.  To this day, it is my son, Peter's, favorite dinner.  Fluffy clouds made up of  rosemary-imbued delightfulness. Life doesn't get much better, especially on a cold winter night when you're engulfed in a snowstorm.

Recently, I was watching old home movies, and my grandmother's face appeared on the screen. I wanted to run to her, to erase all the years, and tell her how much I loved her.  But celluloid can only hold memories.  The sense of loss was palpable.  

I realize now that baking and cooking with my grandma had little to do with the recipes. It was about the time she spent with me, making me feel invincible, in a cramped, suburban kitchen.  

50 years ago, my grandmother taught me to embrace the ordinary savory moments that make life extraordinary. 

Through the years, I've tried to pass on the goodness.   I've taught my nieces and nephews to bake pies. I have "special time" with the little girls across the street each week, during which they can stand on stools, crack eggs all on their own, and know they are loved.  

Thank you, Grandma. You taught me that time spent with others, in the kitchen, lets each of us live purposefully, with wild abandon, and deliberate joy.  Hopefully, with a chocolate mustache.