The author’s mother always came prepared when she visited from her home in the country, ready to cook up a storm
She came to the city at regular intervals, carrying her battered old suitcase.
Grandma never knew what it was to pack her bags. Even if she had all the time in the world, she would wait until the Greyhound bus was about ready to leave and then hastily toss the essentials into her suitcase.
Invariably there was something pinched in the opening. Usually it was the tail of her apron, mute evidence of her intentions. She had come to bake —bread and pies and gingersnaps and raisin cookies and whatever else captured her fancy and tickled our palates.
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As they had done ever since they were small, our teenagers always followed her down the hall and waited for her suitcase to spring open. One could never tell what potential it contained.
Sometimes it was an apple or two on the verge of wilting, or a bag of bread crusts she had saved to stuff a chicken, or a box of Jello that just happened to be handy when she “packed” her bags. Occasionally it would be two lemons, one of which looked like it needed a skin graft. She had grated the outer peel to flavour a cake, “but the juice will be just fine.”
“Oh boy,” the teenagers would shout. “Lemon meringue pie.”
“Just wait until I get out of these clothes.”
Within minutes Grandma had shucked her black jumper and white blouse in favour of a house dress, slippers and bib apron.
For the next few days the kitchen was one whirlwind of all purpose flour, the fine white dust settling on cupboards and canister tops alike. Bits of bread dough and raw pie crust began to adhere to the handle of the fridge and to the oven door and the water taps. Concentrating on the tasks at hand, Grandma never even noticed the trail of evidence she left behind. Nobody minded, especially when for compensation there were lemon meringue pies and freshly baked bread and a gingerbread cake with brown sugar icing.
As the days went by there might be stray polka dots of gingerbread pressed against the kitchen floor by Grandma’s slippers, or a trail of floury footprints into the living room.
Once in awhile she sat on the couch, her crocheting in her lap, the tomcat pressed snug against her side as she enlightened our teenage sons about the finer aspects of NHL hockey. More often than not, she just stuck her head around the corner to catch the highlights of the game, confident her favourite team could score without her while she mixed another batch of cookies.
As she surveyed the inroads made on her fresh baking by a family of hungry teenagers, she was both dismayed and pleased.
“Mercy. I’ll have to bake another lemon pie.”
Our daughter was always surprised that Grandma never measured ingredients. She just put in “about this much flour and a little shortening and enough water to stick the pastry together.” Amused, our daughter would teasingly exclaim, “you sure wouldn’t pass home ec, Grandma.”
“Land sakes, I guess not.”
Grandma didn’t waste time “doing things right.” She just got things done. That way she might wedge in a little time to go shopping in the big city stores. Either she needed a few yards of material for a new dress or some crochet cotton to finish a doily, or a frame for the peacock picture she was embroidering. Our oldest son was sure to extend her an offer she couldn’t refuse.
“Make me some scones, Grandma, and I’ll take you shopping.”
Grandma’s “scones” were made from a piece of bread dough, rolled thinly and fried quickly in a cast iron pan. Puzzled as to why anyone considered them a treat, Grandma always made jokes about her scones being heavy and unpalatable. Gobbling down every piece, our son would teasingly agree.
“Have to put more air in the tires before we go shopping now, Grandma.”
“Have you at least got overload springs?” Grandma could always top another’s teasing with her own.
While I waited for them to come home from shopping, I would tidy up the kitchen. On one counter was a basket filled with irregularly shaped molasses cookies awaiting peppermint icing.
Beside them was another lemon pie. Wary of modern kitchen gadgets such as electric beaters, Grandma had whipped the meringue by hand using an ordinary table fork, and glossy little beads of condensation were forming on the top of the pie.
On another counter, five loaves of bread were lined up under a tea towel, waiting for the magic moment for Grandma to pop them into the oven.
The soup she had made was bubbling on the back element, and as I swept the floor I gathered up half a dozen ripe beans that had slipped away as she picked them over in her lap.
There was usually a piece of potato peel and an onion skin in my dust pan, and in spring time, a bit of potting soil that usually stuck to her slippers when we seeded tomatoes.
She’d check the little peat moss cups in the west window every morning, and when the first seedlings unfolded, she was anxious to go home and plant her own small garden.
All too soon the day would come when the teenagers got home from school and asked, “did you take Grandma to the bus?” and they would chuckle fondly over the wealth of memories she left behind. As I set the table for supper and saw her vacant place, I was reminded once again of the role a mother plays, especially when the coffee mug marked “Mom” reverted to me, her daughter.
