I have been thinking about this topic for a couple of days. The truth is I wouldn't want to trade places with anyone for a day. We all have problems both big and small and even though I am often full of advice on what should be done I would never want another persons troubles for even one day. I have been thinking about that play Our Town. In the final act, Emily travels back to the time of her 12th birthday after dying in childbirth. She was given the option to relive any day and was advised to chose a normal day as nothing could be changed. I am sure there is more to the explanation of why she chose her 12th birthday but I can't remember, I read the play in middle school. I have been thinking of what day I would relive in my childhood, if I couldn't relive a day with my family. So instead of who I would trade places with I will share a day that I would relive with my great grandmother on my fathers side. She died when I was a teenager and even though I can't say that I was particularly close with a lot of people as a child because of how I was raised by my mother. That is another story for another day that may or may not come up again. So now I will try to paint a picture with words instead of paint. Okay, this is part of an essay I wrote for my first English class but I think I did well and I am proud of it. Try not to hold it against me.
My favorite place to eat was at my great grandmother’s house. We always started our visit in her warm yellow kitchen, baking bread. I was small enough where I needed to stand on a chair next to her, so I could watch her wrinkled hands push into the soft beige dough as puffs of white flour would float into the air and stick to our hair. She would fold it over and push it down again. I thought, and continue to think, that it was the most beautiful sight I would ever see.
Sometimes, she would let me knead the bread dough as she watched me patiently. I loved how the sticky mess slowly turned into soft firm dough. When I pushed the dough down the flour would cover everything, dusting even the nearby toaster white. The almost sour smell of the yeast filled the room. My great grandma would finish kneading to be sure it was just the right consistency. Then, we would set aside and cover the dough with a clean white cloth towel to let it rise.
She always had bread dough of some kind ready to go into the hot oven. So with a little magic she would pull the ready dough out and we would shape it in to a pretty loaf on the baking sheet. My grandmother would run a sharp, gleaming knife in over the dough in even rows. Then, I would brush egg whites over the top of the dough. The soft dough would go into the oven, and I would watch through the glass to see if I could see it turn into bread.
I never made it very long, and would go outside to “help” in the garden. My grandmother would put a clean red and white checked apron on over my clothes before I went outside behind her. As my grandmother gathered the green vegetables, I would be over in the blackberry bushes with the birds. I would always get stuck on the thorns, and just sit down and eat the sweet blackberries until the apron and my face turned purple.
She would call me in with her sing-song voice, “Trisha let’s check the bread and get cleaned up for dinner.” As we walked into the house I could smell the bread through the whole house. I could not wait to taste the bread we made together.
We would sit at the kitchen table and eat the bread with a little melted butter. The warm brown crust was crunchy, the center was white and fluffy, and it almost melted in my mouth. She would look at me with her blue eyes shining brightly behind her round glasses and say, “Remember Trisha as long as you make it with love it will always turn out just right.” Her words made me feel warm and loved completely.
These days my kids come running into the kitchen when the oven timer goes off because they know that something wonderful will be coming out of it soon. I try to give them the same gift that my great grandmother gave to me in her yellow kitchen as I teach them how to cook. They do not understand how lucky they are to have a mother who loves to cook. We rarely eat anything twice in a month, and the only thing I make with kielbasa is a sausage and shrimp gumbo once a year for my husband. I can only hope that when they are adults they will have fond memories of me in our yellow kitchen.
I love the fact you painted your kitchen yellow because of the fond memories with your grandmother!
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