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
of my family have lived before me, my memories 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 was 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 JIF. After she took sips of her dark black brew, she applied
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 sweet, comforting,
nutty scent, filled the small, bright room as she bit off a piece with a
satisfying crunch.
My
great-grandmother baked. That was her hobby. Her specialty was 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
to eliminate many of my favorite childhood deserts because I am unable to consume
any dairy and a variety of other foods, making me miss her even more because I
can’t remember her through taste, a strong memory trigger for me. Thankfully,
the recipes have been passed down to so that my children will be able to enjoy
these foods as well even if I cannot. Even so, I know that the banana bread my
mom makes is nowhere near as mouthwatering as hers was. My great-grandma was
very careful to share her recipes with anyone but close family. I’m almost
positive she added something to the batter that was never written down so that
she could make sure that no one could replicate her baked goods, leaving me now
at a loss.
That
morning I sat watching her prepare our breakfast on a stool propped against the
wall, out of the way, as I waited for my Strawberry Poptarts to be toasted to a
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
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 doused in milk, which to this day I
cannot seem to replicate with my insufficient soy substitute, 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 at some point. Normally, she’d teach me how to play
canasta or we’d pull out the board games she had 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
the 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,
another old favorite of mine, 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 from our cottage to eat. They brought hamburgers, Lay’s 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 being cream based. 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 because 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 vegetables from the garden. Trips to DQ almost
everyday with games of mini golf on steaming hot days. Now, visits to DQ
require a whole sleeve of Lactaid pills and even with those, pain is
inevitable. 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, GSN wasn’t as funny or enjoyable. I just
can’t appreciate them as much when she isn’t 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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