Grandma's Kitchen

When I was in middle school I wrote a short descriptive piece about my favorite place in the world. Not surprisingly my little slice of heaven was at my grandparents' house. It was the creek running through their pasture. The creek is still there, and I can almost remember what I had written.Something like "The water is cold on my bare feet. Its babbling is like a quiet song sung only for me. A crane rests on a large rock, watching for his lunch in the clear stream."

It was easily my best work, and I wish I had a copy of the assignment, but if my memory serves me, and it usually does, the teacher kept it as an example for future students.

Thinking about this piece makes me think of my grandparents. Specifically my grandmother, and her kitchen.

There were, and still are many magical spots at my grandparents' house. But Grandma's kitchen was probably the happiest, most magical of all. There wasn't anything special about it, except maybe the vintage cabinet door handles, and the pepto bismol pink paint on the cabinets. But there was always something wonderful lingering in the room.

You could almost always find my Grandma hovering over the stove, cooking up the best meal you'd ever have. Up until the week of her passing, she was in there baking a chocolate cake, or making a pot of chicken and noodles, just for me.

Many times I would walk in the back door to find her stirring the noodles one more time for perfection. "I thought you'd be over soon. I made chicken and noodles." That was her greeting every time. Her back was always to me. I don't know how she knew it was me, she probably saw me through the window above the kitchen sink, but I appreciated and I cherish that she always knew.

The magic is gone now. The kitchen is often dark. But sometimes, when the air is still and the light from that window above the sink is just right, I can almost see her, and I can feel her there, waiting for me to come through the back door, so we can have lunch together one last time.