The fine flour covered her hands as she blended it with the smallest amount of oil which started out in the center of the bowl. She worked it, scooped it into the cup of her hand, then released it as she gathered more. This work, this love in a bowl, would become Granny’s delicious cornbread.
Something about the way she moved, how she held the pink bowl in her hands, was as if seeing an angel twittering about the kitchen. It looked like a dream.
It wasn’t slow, she mixed with the speed and agility of having done it hundreds of times. There was no recipe, no measuring- this she knew by heart, by feel. Granny prepared food to show her love. And she loved well!
Her cornbread was one of my favorites. Everything she made was a little slice of heaven come to earth, but her cornbread thrilled me to no end. If I was around, she took her bowl, those few ingredients, and her cast-iron skillet and went to work.
In the South, food is love. She loved me.
Love seems so simple, yet it can be terrifyingly difficult. We humans show love in so many ways. Hugs, kisses, and even actual words. Gifts and acts of kindness are right at the top. My husband keeps my gas tank full, not because he enjoys a trip to the gas station or thinks I’m not capable, but because he loves me. He is a two on the Enneagram, so acts of kindness flow from him like dew on a Georgia morning.
Allowing ourselves to be loved can be downright tricky for some of us. That’s why food is a grand statement of how one feels. We need to eat, so filling someone’s tummy brings great satisfaction to people like my granny.
Granny cooked everything without a recipe. This incredible feat is wonderful until time to share said recipe with someone who measures every ingredient. Her Thanksgiving dressing was another favorite to look forward to. I will never forget the phone call with her telling me how to make it. I had pen and paper ready for the recipe. She listed the ingredients, explained what to do with them, and that was that. When I tried to pin her down on measurements, she answered, “until it’s the right consistency!” What?
Obviously, I should have spent more time beside her instead of across the room chatting as she prepared the food. I still have the now stained piece of notebook paper I wrote her “recipe” on. Years have worn it to a dingy yellow, covered in the drippings of my learning. I pull it out every year, laugh at my note of “until it’s the right consistency,” and hear my granny’s voice teaching me her ways.
Growing up eating her cooking spoiled me to good southern fare. I’ll never forget the first time someone offered me “cornbread” and handed over something that resembled cake. Needless to say, I balked. My granny made her cornbread in “pones.” With her nimble fingers, she shaped each pone and placed it into the hot skillet as individual pieces. It came out of the piping hot oven, thin and delicious.
Granny left us many years ago at the age of 80. She never stopped cooking until she became too weak to stand. When I think of her, which is often, I see her in her apron (always wear an apron to protect your clothing), scooping a handful of meal into her soft hands, dropping it into the skillet, and later as if by magic, we sit down to eat some of the good stuff. Love on a plate!
My great grandmother’s specialty was chicken and dumplings. She was known throughout her small town for them. The preacher often stopped by right at dinner time hoping they were on the menu. She lived to be 101. I’ve never had any that were even close to their deliciousness!
My Granny made a delicious chicken and dumplings too. She was a fantastic cook – probably because she loved to do it. I bet the pastor was excited when got them!