Mollie and Florence

Lately my moments at home have been dominated by the impending reality that my grandmother is not long for this world. She is my mother’s mother, Florence. I did not have the luxury of seeing her very often, as I grew up in Michigan and she lives in Portland, OR.

When I moved to San Francisco and the distance to Portland was shortened, we were able to spend time together on Thanksgiving weekends for 5 years running. During those visits she taught me how to make pastry crust and properly assemble a killer apple pie. She once made me an unforgettable meal of Pacific-caught salmon, asparagus, and spinach salad with her famous bacon vinaigrette. I can still recall choking on the vinegar fumes because I breathed in too quickly as I devoured the salad. We would always make one wild card dessert to round out the traditional Thanksgiving apple, apple-mince and pumpkin pies. One year it was a coconut cream pie to which my grandmother added almond extract, a trick she had learned from the cook at her high school cafeteria. Another year she indulged me in my desire to make a pumpkin cheesecake served with whip cream and caramel sauce. My grandmother always wanted things done her way in the kitchen and wasn’t easy to please. But she taught me so much in that kitchen: basic baking skills, family recipes, and an approach to cooking that values tradition, variety, joy, and always learning new things.

I’d like to say that I’ve been making a bunch of pies and other stuff to nurture my sense of connection to my Grandma. But I haven’t. I’ve been sitting on the couch and eating too many chips. So many, Kevin had to take the bag away. Luckily he has been on the couch with me, lending me his shoulder as I feel the pain of being about to lose my Grandma.

He’s been listening to stories about my grandmother. I explained to him that Florence did not know how to cook when she married my grandfather, Adam. Adam was a particular challenge in the food arena, given his juvenile diabetes. My mother recently told me that my grandmother often served wine jellies for dessert at their dinner parties, because they have a very low sugar content. Florence would never allow the guests to help with the dishes, because my grandparents savored those moments of reminiscing the evening’s socializing while tidying up in the kitchen together.

It’s helped me to tell the stories, since I’m not at a point in the grieving process where I can honor my Grandma in the kitchen. This weekend I’ll be making a Bolognese sauce for a hearty winter spaghetti dinner and freezing some sauce for later use. We’ll be eating well and filling the apartment with the aroma of onions and tomatoes and that deep, almost caramel scent that results from slow cooking.

As I picture us enjoying the meal and then clearing away the plates, I can see one way in which I am strongly connected to my grandmother right now. The stories I told Kevin made me realize just how amazing an influence my grandmother has had on me, down to my understanding of married domestic life. It may have taken a while for me to find the right man, but I managed to pick one that I can enjoy washing dishes with while we discuss the evening’s happy moments.