Grandma's Kitchen
By Andi
When she wasn’t in the garden, Grandma was in the kitchen. I suspect she slept from time to time, but I never remember seeing it. She was awake before the sun and already in the kitchen when sleepy kids began pouring in to see what was cooking. We often were awakened by the tinkling sounds of jars rattling in the pressure pots as the fruits of her magnificent garden were preserved for winter meals. Either the news of the day would be whispering from the tiny black and white TV in the corner… turned up only to hear the important weather report… or Billy Graham or like brethren would preach their hearts out from the tortured radio.
When the news or preaching was over for the morning… the whistling began. Grandma can whistle. She can whistle a tune so beautiful and so long that it would bring tears to your eyes. And until you actually saw it was just her, you suspected someone else was with her, whistling the harmony. She will tell you, as you sit around the table watching her work, that her brother Ira tortured her into learning how to whistle when she was young. I can see the real terror in her eyes when she recalls that story. But secretly I still thank Ira.
Grandma did not use recipes. Or, if she did, they weren’t written down on paper… other than the few and infrequently consulted scraps of stained and yellowed index cards from friends and family past.
She can peel an apple with a dangerously sharp knife. In one stroke. Every time. The rind came off as if it no longer wanted to be a part of that apple. Or potato. Or peach. Or grape. Rinds didn’t stand a chance in that kitchen.
When did Grandma go shopping? I still wonder. She cooked a minimum of three meals a day for a house full of kids, their kids, the church, the families in need at the time, and the rest of the county who stopped by to see what she was baking up… or to buy a jar of this year‘s sticky sweet Sorghum. She’d prepare extra meals for the men and kids working in the field for whenever they might stop in. She must have gone through tons (as in literal tons) of food every month. She never ran out of anything. Ever. There were always bags (“pints”) of blueberries in the deep freeze, and boxes on boxes of popsicles in the "little" freezer. She had enough ground beef for a loose meat side dish at every meal. Even breakfast. Where did all of that food come from? The candy drawer was a bottomless source of hard candies -- sugared, and sugarless -- the kind that grandmas always keep in their big purses. No matter how many pies, noodles, biscuits, or dumplings were made each day… there was always enough flour. How did she do that?
Everything happened in that kitchen. Food cooked. Goods baked. Mason Jars were processed and stored. The big deep freeze proudly held the contents of a year of seemingly effortless work. Medicine was administered; blood pressure and blood sugar checked. Owies were cried over, prayed for, patched up, and healed in that kitchen. The day’s agenda was created… just after the weather report. The politics of the day were debated; Democrats chastised; Bibles read; loans given and forgiven. Something was always happening in Grandma’s kitchen. Something was boiling, frying, drying, baking, stewing, slicing, dicing, dripping, chopping, grinding, mixing, or loosing its no longer needed feathers.
The Almighty was called upon often in that kitchen. He blessed the people; the fellowship; and the food into our bodies. He blessed the tender, loving, and efficient hands of His faithful servant who prepared those meals. He gave us this tender, tireless, wonderful woman we were lucky enough to call our Grandma Frieden, with the fastest hands, the strongest memory, and the biggest tears we’ll every recall. He put her in a kitchen that some might say was run-down, cramped, and either too stinkin hot or too freezing cold… and gave us all a place -- Grandma’s Kitchen -- where we were always Home.
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