Friday, October 3, 2008

Two things

First off, my grandmother died, and at her funeral I read this:

When I was told that grandma had passed away, one of my first reactions, as odd as it may seem, was to want to bake a pie.

When I think of grandma, I think of food. I think of apple bars cooling on the counter as my sister and I entered the kitchen. I think of home-baked pies swollen with sugar and fruit, waiting to be consumed with little regard to portion control. I think of a surplus of daily meals more numerous than I had known to be possible, with the occasional intermittent tray of sandwiches in case you got hungry. I even think of a pantry full of the sweetest of multicolored breakfast cereal, the kind of which--and here's what made it really good--my mother strongly disapproved.

Simple stuff, perhaps, but I was a kid, and it is things like this that add up to legendary measures. Grandma wasn't just any grandma, she was the grandma, the kind of grandma you think of when you describe exactly how important a grandmother is. The grandma who always welcomes you in and encompasses you in love. The grandma who gives you support when needed, and plays a part of major milestones in your growth and maturity. A grandma who keeps you in line and yet isn't afraid to interpret the rules a little more loosely and spoil you from time to time.

It may seem shallow to remember grandma through the medium of food, but it runs much deeper than just eating things, as delicious as these things may have been. I was twenty or so the last time I tried to bake a pie, and I distinctly remember grandma assisting me in my mother's kitchen with warm authority. We operated as a team for a good half hour or so, and by the time we put the pie in the oven my black t-shirt was practically white with flour. She knew better, and wore an apron.

The pie, of course, was delicious.

Thank you grandma, I love you.


Secondly, I'm off to Australia for two weeks. Later.


Hilary said...

I'm sorry about your grandmother.

You totally made me cry.

Chris said...

I totally empathise on the grandma front. While I wasn't lucky (or unlucky) enough to get back to see her before she died or attend her funeral (my daughter was due any day at the time, if you'll remember), even if I had, reading out stuff isn't a typical British tradition beyond the eulogy or the spouse of the deceased, or whatever. But if I were to ever tell my grandma anything, it'd be of all the wonderful Saturday and Sunday mornings when I woke up at their place to the smell of freshly brewed coffee, bacon and eggs frying, or the Sunday family lunches, homemade soup followed by roast and rounded off with apple pie and ice cream. God, takes me back. It's like I'm eleven years old again.

As for Oz... see you soon. ;)

hadjare said...

Beautiful remembrance of your grandmother.