Grandma’s Kitchen - A Short Story

I loved mum’s mum.  She was a wonderful presence in my life. 

She died a number of years ago at a ripe old age, untroubled by much sickness until she was finally and fatally troubled.  It was her heart.  It had seen enough, borne enough, loved enough.  Enough was enough.

Nana never seemed phased or troubled, always steady, always kind, always doing for others.  I’m sure she was often troubled, often feeling far from steady, often, like the rest of us. But when you are a child that isn’t something perceived and nor should it be.  Your parents, your grandparents are breaks in a blizzard, roofs over our heads, and walls against the elements.  They feel all the force of the elements so that we don’t.  We will soon enough, in the meantime there is Nana.

I have warm and securing memories of grandma’s house.  It was always less chaotic than our home.  It was neat, warm and tidy.  It was welcoming but not every room.  Some rooms were off limits, not because they were mysterious, because they were private.  I didn’t venture. I didn’t need to as the most important rooms were filled with my grandparents and that was wonderful enough. 

One year when I was big enough to travel alone by train I went to Nana’s house for the holidays.  I still remember sleeping the best sleep in a bed that almost enveloped me with softness, warmth and down.  It may not have been good for my back but it was good for my soul.  Nothing could get at me when I was at my grandparents home.  It is not until you are away from something that you realize it’s constant wearying.  The peace enjoyed at Nana’s was in juxtaposition to the undercurrent of tension in my own home; nothing obvious, nothing spectacular, nothing to write about (not that it has stopped me).  Nana didn’t have to raise me, correct me, feed me, or worry about me as much as my parents had to. 

I have come to the conclusion that the difference between parenting and grand parenting can be ably summed up quite simply. Two words: ‘no’ and ‘yes,’ and you can guess which belongs to which. Yes?

Now that I am a seasoned grandparent I am aghast when my kids speak with any sense of correction or threat to ‘my’ grandchildren.  It seems so wrong but then I get to have all the fun and hardly any of the responsibility.  Justice. 

Grandma’s lounge was a little stiff, formally arranged and old fashioned.  But grandma’s kitchen, now that was a different story.  I was delighted endlessly by long breakfasts dominated by discussion with my mum, her sister and their mum.  The food was grandma’s food  - wholesome, hearty, and not so wholesome or hearty when lashed with butter.  She had a wood fired oven.  Everything tasted delicious.  Toast was scrumptious. Bacon was as bacon was meant to be, tea properly brewed, but porridge was still yukky. Seems every grand parent has some dish they insist makes you healthier.  Mine were no exception.

The ladies were very funny, very bright and very close.  I’d sit for hours enthralled with their conversation, and my mother’s sense of humour.  She was funny, clever funny, silly funny, funny funny.  My aunt would giggle endless at her quickness of mind and tongue and Nana would sit at the table smiling and saying not a great deal. I’m sure she was equally delighted with the proceedings.  It was a break and relief to them all and to me.  And it was in Grandma’s magical kitchen.