More Than Pots and Pans
On this Tuesday bookended by weekend celebrations, I’m sharing an excerpt from my book, Rooted to Rise. As I dug out my Granny’s sugar cookie recipe last week, I was reminded of how many holiday traditions revolve around the kitchen, and how those traditions help us feel closer to the ones we love. Especially the ones we miss…
I clearly remember the first time I figured out how good it felt to set a goal and reach it. I was doing ball-handling drills in my Granny’s kitchen. Sounds odd, I know. But it was the perfect setup. The room was laid out in the shape of a C, with the fridge anchoring one end, and the stove anchoring the other. Connecting the two was a string of durable white cabinets, interrupted only by a sink. The floor was linoleum—white with little blue flowers in the corners of every faux tile. And above the stove was a clock, a dime-store special that had big black numbers and a second hand that plunked reliably lap after lap. It was almost better than a gym.
It was there, in the heart of Granny’s home, that I learned to handle a basketball. Three times a day it was me, a scarred-up Voit, and my red spiral notebook of drills and charts showing up to race against the clock. I would pound the ball with my left hand until the clock’s lesser arrow lined up perfectly on 12, and then I would fly. For 30 seconds, or sometimes for 60, I would wrap and slam that ball in between and around my legs and body, counting every turn. Three times a day every day, all summer I raced against time until the ball was an extension of my hand.
That kitchen was a magical place. In addition to being a make shift gym, it was, first and foremost, the birthplace of Granny’s infamous mashed potatoes. Richer than dessert, they were a southern Oklahoma legend. If you didn’t get in the front of the line on potluck Sundays, you weren’t getting any. And once you had Granny’s masterpiece, no other mashed potatoes on the planet would do. I have personally watched that concoction change the way a number of people see the world.
From this room with the rickety stove also came seas of meals for families in distress. Cupcakes multiplied there like loaves and fishes, and cookies went out by the truckload. Granny’s tiny little space taught me that compassion has arms and hands and generosity has no price tag. When a need arose, we went to the kitchen to try to do something about it.
The kitchen was also a rural house of couture. Gran was widely known as one of the best seamstresses around, and most of her sewing took place right there in the same air where the ball bounced and the chicken fried. In the corner of the room, where the linoleum liked to curl up from the floor around the edges, sat an old Singer sewing machine that rarely rested. It produced bedspreads and curtains, slacks and jackets, Halloween costumes, and even a prom dress. I once made an aqua-blue terry cloth cover-up for a home economics project there. I vividly remember chasing that crawly terry cloth fabric all around the room just to cut it. Granny watched, snickering to herself I am sure, but she never said a word. When I pulled the finished product off the machine and held it up for examination, it was large enough for both of us to wear together. We laughed until we cried. I learned then and there that thread can be ripped out and seams can be re-sewn and you can eventually get it right if it’s important enough to you.
I swear, angels hovered in that room.
When I was in junior high, I participated in the Carter County Fair for no other reason than because our teacher required it, and the kitchen once again became the incubator. Some kids showed animals, some were involved in the Scouts, some did arts and crafts. Since sports wasn’t an option, I chose baking, a category about three area codes outside of my comfort zone. However, since the kitchen was my spot, I figured the worst that could happen was that my dish would lose, and I could eat it. Plus, I had Granny for a teacher, so I figured success, though a definite long shot, would never be completely out of reach.
So I made a pecan roll. With Granny over my shoulder, I boiled and stirred and chopped and rolled and created this thing that looked kind of pretty and tasted even better, they said. I brought the remnants of it home in a box with a blue ribbon that said “Best in Show.” My family had never been so surprised. We hung the ribbon on the kitchen wall next to the clock with big black numbers and the predictable second hand, and we laughed every time we walked by it for weeks. No way that happened without the karma of that kitchen, where dreams were born and given wings to fly.
Years later, when my PaPa died, I remember standing in the kitchen a lot. Especially the day of the funeral. That room just seemed safe. Looking back, I now know why. The story of my life was there.
I notice it still, the gravitational pull of the kitchen. When friends come to our house, no matter where the party starts, the kitchen is where we always end up. We’ve mended hearts while huddled on the counter, untangled messes while sitting on the brick paver floor, and created roads where there weren’t any while leaning against the fridge. Our kitchen is where hard things get tackled and where big dreams get hatched, take root and grow. Maybe it’s the & “possibility place”; in every home. Or maybe it just seems sacred to me because I still feel Granny there. Either way, it’s where our family’s heart beats loudest– the avenue through which our house became our home. Such is the role of kitchen hubs that nourish both our bodies and our souls.
P.S. Thank you for your unbelievable support of Rooted to Rise. I so appreciate the feedback and am moved by the stories of the way it has nudged you. As a thank you and in anticipation of the New Year’s celebration, I give you a guaranteed smile...