I woke up to the slanted ceiling staring back at me, only inches
from my face. Turning over in the small twin bed, I saw my younger brother
tangled in the flowered sheets that my mother slept in when she visited as a
kid. The room smelled like old carpet, a musty, yet comforting scent of
grandparents, or in my case, great-grandparents. Thinking back to the house on Wisner
Street, where the small town of Alpena rests on the shores of Lake Huron, and
three generations have lived before me, my memoires are absorbed by food.
Smells of bacon and pancakes drifted up to the bedroom, enticing
us from our sleep. Slowly we crawled down the steep stairs through the dining
room and into the kitchen. Homemade Italian Christmas bread already toasted and
buttered as my great-grandmother stood in the middle of the small kitchen - her
small kitchen - making breakfast for us. It had become a ritual, a routine,
when my brother and I came to visit. She stood in a long blue robe, faded from
years of being worn each morning, white hair perfectly curled, as she
leaned over the yellowed white Formica countertops. Steam rose from her mug
as she poured herself a cup of Folgers. Her toast sat on a small plate
accompanied by a red-lidded jar of J.I.F. After she took sips of her dark
black brew, she moved on to applying an even, almost perfect layer of peanut butter
on the golden brown toast while I sat watching her. Those two smells, the
earthy coffee and nutty scent filled the small, bright room as she bit of a
piece with a satisfying crunch.
My great-grandmother was a baker. That was her hobby. Her
specialty, banana bread, but she would never disappoint with her shortcakes,
brownies, and cookies of all types. This is how I remember her. I never
remember eating food at her house that wasn’t sweet and I’m sure I obtained my
sweet tooth from her. Having such a restricted diet, not being to consume any
dairy and a variety of other things not only makes me physically uncomfortable,
but more than not in sheer pain.
Thankfully, the recipes have been passed down to my grandmother and now
to my mom and me so that my children will be able to enjoy these foods as well.
Even so, they still don’t taste as good as her creations did. Knowing her, I’m
almost positive she added something to the batter that she never wrote down,
leaving me now at a loss.
I’d sit watching her prepare our breakfast on a stool propped
against the wall, out of the way, as I wait for my Strawberry Poptarts to be
toasted to their own golden brown perfection. My brother sat at the table, feet
kicking, his legs too short to touch the floor, waiting for his Lucky Charms.
Beams of light shone down on the floor. Dust flew through the light like a
quiet snowstorm. The windows may have had a bit of dirt on them, but that
didn’t obstruct my view of the backyard garden where my great-grandfather stood
watering and weeding the garden before the temperature rose. I moved from my
perch to the table where she had set her plate across from my brother’s and
mine.
Breakfast was a time not only to consume fresh fruit in a bowl of
milk or left over shortcakes, but also a place where my family decide the day’s
activities. I never cared what my great-grandmother had planned for the day, as
long as we were allowed to get Dairy Queen as some point. Normally, she’d teach
me how to play canasta or we’d pull out the board games she had been used for
decades. My favorites were Sorry! And Rummikub. I think the Sorry! board ended
up splitting into two pieces and we resorted to taping the fold to make it
whole again. My great-grandmother and I played games for hours. It was nearly
impossible to come into her house during the day without hearing the shuffling
of cards, or die hitting the table. When we were tired of playing, she turned
on the television to the Game Show Network (GSN) and we watched anything and
everything. Sitting on the couch with some sesame sticks or cheesy popcorn was
a must and there was never a concern about getting food on the cushions. As a
kid there was never a need to worry about anything. Food would always be on the
table when it was time for the next meal and I always seemed to be occupied
during the day. It is funny how growing up changes that all.
At some point, my parents came over to eat. They brought hamburgers,
Lay’s Original Potato Chips, French onion dip and watermelon, a perfect summer
lunch. While my dad helped my great-grandfather with whatever needed to be
fixed that day, my little brother in tow, the ladies went into the kitchen to
start cooking. For me, burgers were a staple item, mustard, ketchup, and
pickles were all I needed to complete the sandwich. That would not seem like
enough now, as I love lettuce, tomatoes, onions, and avocado as well. Now I
prefer organic sweet potato chips rather than regular ones. Watermelon doesn’t
sit well with my stomach and chip dip is not an option. But back then everything
was simple and wonderful. The smell of the grill is synonymous with summer in
my mind. Describing charcoal is close to impossible. It is unique in the since
that when you smell it, you instantly know that the food coming off the grill
will have a hint of it converted into flavor.
I wish I could go back to that
house. Those summers were filled with magic. Grapes that were so firm, they
burst with a crunch. Sweet corn on the cob doused in butter with hamburgers and
hotdogs over the old charcoal grill with fresh vegetable from the garden. Trips
to DQ almost everyday with games of mini golf on steaming hot days. I wish I
could go back to visit that old house where steps creaked and the house shook
in the summer wind and see my great-grandparents again, hear their voices. Looking
back, my love for turning on GSN disappeared when my great-grandmother died. Maybe
it was because I didn’t have the time to just sit for hours or because I didn’t
have the patience. More than likely it was because without her sitting by me
and being company, GSN wasn’t as funny or enjoyable. I just can’t appreciate
them as much when she isn’t sitting by my trying to answer the questions before
the contestants do.
As much as I wish I could relive these memories, I can’t. These
people are gone, the house was sold years ago, the garden is gone, and many of
these once delicious foods are not a part of my diet anymore. Life transforms
from a carefree dream to a complicated task, but even so, I will always have
the memories.
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