I think I channeled all of my grandmothers today, all three of the ones I knew personally. I spent my morning assembling a kitchen stool very similar to the one we had at my mother's mother's house. It was one of those classic vinyl chairs with a pull-out set of stairs. In the Oklahoma house, the one we had was yellow, but I chose turquoise to match the theme of my own house for here. I can't wait to have Valerie and/or baby number two sitting on this thing, helping me in the kitchen, as I sat on the yellow one in my own childhood. I can't tell you how much that grandmother appreciated my "help" when I was that age, because those parts of the memories didn't survive. Maybe she enjoyed it, maybe she didn't. Regardless, I am all on board for a grandkid sidekick in the kitchen. I'm going to have to keep my counters a whole lot more clear of deadly weapons, though. Put away the knives and glass stuff that can fall and break. It'll be for my own good too.
Both of my grandmothers and my great-grandmother knew their way around kitchens. If these three women were not enough inspiration to teach me how to express love through food, then it wouldn't be possible to learn. I made chicken fried steak for dinner, a thoroughly Okie dish that is only improved by my need for a substitute flour (chickpea is the best!), and hours later I'm still feeling like I have traveled in time to simpler days. While I was shopping for ingredients earlier today, I was also planning on inviting the kids over for a pot roast dinner this weekend, with a peach pie for dessert. I know Valerie isn't very interested in eating meat, which I won't worry about, but I expect that kid will be all over a pie. I know I'll be a pushover and give her dessert even if she makes little effort towards her main meal. In my head, I could hear my dad telling stories of my Granny giving the same treatment to my brother when he was a toddler. (He eats two peas, and she decides, "He did pretty good. Give him some chocolate cake.")
I took my new car over to transfer my car wash membership to it, and get a new RFID sticker for it. I was drying it off in the vacuum bay, and as I wiped down the hood, I could feel the silver 1972 Pontiac LeMans that my maternal grandma had as surely as if I were touching it. That was the first car I ever drove. (At age 10? 11? It was just around the open area at our cabin.) This car is a million times fancier than the Pontiac, but it's every bit as much of a grandma car to me. Oddly, I am okay with that.
(Those who know can correct me if I have the year of the car wrong. I looked through Google images until they looked right.)
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