I can remember my childhood very vividly. The smell of freshly cut grass, a medley of crickets singing outside my window at night, my grandmother calling my brother and I in from the yard for dinner time There are so many memories that I have not thought about until today. Until this very moment.
Every day after school my brother and I spent our afternoons and early evenings at my grandparent’s house. My Grandy and Nana were special. They picked us up each day (except Thursdays when Mama was off of work) from school with a Coca Cola Classic in hand and a little baggie of pickles and Vienna Sausages for our afternoon snack. It was the best. Each day with a smile on their faces they would ask what we learned, ask us about our friends, and when we arrived at their house, Jacob and I ruled the roost. It may have been Nana and Grandy’s house, but I secretly knew I could get away with just about anything. Well, except for the occasion when Nana chased me around the house with a leather belt for a spanking because I carved my name in a piece of her favorite furniture. Or worse, when made me go into the yard and pick out my hickory switch because I cut my brother’s hair. I feared the switch as a child, but now my “raisin'” makes me smile, and I would not change a thing.
I fondly remember my summers at Grandy and Nana’s house. I grew up in a small Southern town. The type of place where you may or may not lock your doors. The type of place where you know everyone in your church service. The type of place where every other person is your aunt, uncle, cousin, or you at least call them that. I had the best childhood, and it was in great part because of these two very, very special people I called Nana and Grandy.
My Nana was unique. She was a very, very special lady who everyone called Aunt Sara. Or Fat. My Grandy always called her Fat. Not because she was actually fat, in fact, she was very petite. It never made a lot of sense to me growing up, but she embraced it none the less. Nana was one of ten children. She was the second youngest. I never knew all of my great aunts and uncles because many passed away before I was born, but I knew she loved her family. Their photos adorned the walls of her home and she talked about them often. And she would do anything for her family. Come hell or high water, it was family first.
Another great love of my Nana’s was the kitchen. Preparing food for the people she loved. (Well, and I think she enjoyed showing off her skills.) And my love for cooking began in her little rectangular kitchen. Her kitchen was nothing special, but the food that came from her stove was made with so much love. I can remember sitting on the counter watching her not measure anything, but making the best everything. She was the type of Southern-country cook that you long to be like. She taught me how to properly use a cast iron skillet. How to season it. How to clean it. How to make cornbread with eggs, corn meal, grease, and a little salt. She taught me that good food is more than ingredients, it’s made with love.
I remember so many things about our time together in the kitchen. I remember the piece of flour covered canvas she rolled her biscuits out on. The copper measuring cups she would occasionally use and after I would get to drink milk from.(Which made me feel oh so special). Even better, I remember getting to lick the beaters after she finished preparing her cake batter. That was the ultimate treat. Cake batter? What could be better? I remember the old church recipe books she would cook from and the smells from her kitchen. The cubed steak and gravy, turkey and dressing, green beans and collard greens, the coconut cakes, the fudge, and the pecan pie. Oh the pecan pie. My Nana made the best pecan pie! And three years ago at Thanksgiving I was given a crash course in the makings of a perfect pecan pie. Which, if you are one of the fortunate recipients of this recipe, you’ve been duped. That evening before Thanksgiving while baking, she giggled and gave me a sheepish grin when I pointed out she was not following her own recipe. She only reserved the real recipe for my mother and me. Family first. Always.
That evening together will stay with me now for a lifetime. I knew it was a special night. But until today, I did not know just how special. It would be the last time we baked together. The last time we shared our favorite place: the kitchen.
It has been years since all of these memories flooded my mind. But today, on April 7, 2018 as I sit on a plane flying home to my family these memories have come over me, and the tears have come with them. Today, while Heaven gained a special angel, we’ve lost my Nana. She was 90 years old and lived a full and wonderful life. Although I know in my heart now was her time, I can not help but embrace the sadness and grief. My Nana is a huge part of who I am and the woman I have become.
In the days to come, we will celebrate her life at a service and funeral. My family will embrace one another, tell stories, and think of how wonderful she was. But me? I’m flying home to bake a pecan pie and some cornbread in the cast iron that was her mother’s that Nana gave to me.
