We're having an office foodbank fundraiser, and the partners are cooking breakfast (which you can enjoy for a donation). The smell of bacon is practically corporeal. Something about the smell of bacon cooked on a griddle brings back vivid memories of my grandmother cooking for me when I was a child, what she made, how she showed us she loved us by feeding us (something I still do with my own family).
Fried chicken and yeast biscuits and green beans cooked with a little bacon grease and a little sugar until they were limp, and sliced tomatoes from the garden that never saw the inside of a refrigerator, still warm from the windowsill. Thin salty slices of country ham fried on the stove, spoon bread, homemade sweet pickles an improbable shade of vivid blue-green in a cut-glass dish. Homemade blackberry jam a little crunchy with the pips, and butter in its covered dish, so warm it was shapeless.
I miss her so much. How lucky I am, to have had so much time with her. She gave me unconditional love and a place to belong, and showed me how to have a generous heart.
Fried chicken and yeast biscuits and green beans cooked with a little bacon grease and a little sugar until they were limp, and sliced tomatoes from the garden that never saw the inside of a refrigerator, still warm from the windowsill. Thin salty slices of country ham fried on the stove, spoon bread, homemade sweet pickles an improbable shade of vivid blue-green in a cut-glass dish. Homemade blackberry jam a little crunchy with the pips, and butter in its covered dish, so warm it was shapeless.
I miss her so much. How lucky I am, to have had so much time with her. She gave me unconditional love and a place to belong, and showed me how to have a generous heart.
RSS Feed
