Environmental Autobiography - Grandma's Kitchen

Sunlight streamed through the window above the sink that looked out onto a cow pasture and a single willow tree.  Memories of the time my cousin was talked into touching the electric fence that skirted the property line still rise to the surface when I think about that kitchen.  It was a typical country kitchen in a bucolic area of Central Wisconsin.  Nestled between some low relief hills, a giant frog pond, my grandfather’s salvage yard, and the state bike trail, this kitchen had produced sweet and savory meals for generations of Wisconsinites before my family took ownership some time before my birth.  On any given day the aromas of bread baking in the oven, berry pies resting under the window, and all manner of casseroles could be smelled emanating from the back of the house.

My grandmother’s kitchen was located on the first floor of a small two story home with a pitched roof and broad flower covered porch.  In order to block the view of my grandfather’s salvage yard, which grandma despised, large peonies bushes were planted along the perimeter of the lawn and overflowing hanging flower baskets were always blowing in the breeze above the porch.  There were really two worlds that existed on this sundrenched landscape; that which was nurtured by my grandmother and that which was forced onto the land by my grandfather.  They each had their own worlds and new well enough not to stray into the other’s without permission. 

Upon entering off the porch, one had to navigate through the family room and dining room to reach the rear of the home.  My experience has taught me that the kitchen is the heart of any good home and that was definitely true here; even though it was located at the back, every major artery connected to the kitchen.  There was also a steeply inclined secret stair that led from one of the upstairs bedrooms straight down into the kitchen.  It was not necessarily a “secret” stair, since the whole family knew about it, but it was “secret “ to my youthful mind.  It could always be used as a quick getaway when being chased by cousins or when grandma asked for help with the dishes.  Opposite the stair was a covered backyard porch that housed a deep-freeze big enough to store herds of wild game.  My mouth would always begin to salivate like a Pavlovian dog when the great hinged lid would open to reveal buckets of ice-cream, sherbet push pops, Klondike bars, and popsicles in every color of the rainbow.

This magical realm was completely off-limits to my grandfather.  I never saw him enter the kitchen in all my life.  This was grandma’s world and he knew to leave well enough alone.  He would not even look in through the open doorway for fear of knowing too much about a woman’s work.  It was like the dresser drawer that housed her intimates; better left alone.  This was all right in my book because I never really cared for grandpa’s mean exterior.  He spent most of the time picking through piles of junk out in the salvage yard and only came in for lunch and dinner.  During those times that he was outside the house was free to roaming, exploring, and having fun.

Grandma always felt obliged to keep me busy and entertained whenever I was there and my cousins were not.  If we were not constructing crafts, we were in the kitchen.  There was a family of five to feed breakfast, lunch, and dinner to everyday.  When the whole family would travel in from far off places such as Alaska, New Mexico, Florida, or even Kentucky, there could be upwards of fifty people to feed but most days it was just the five of us.  We could spend most of the day in her small country kitchen.  My favorite thing in the whole world was piecrust; it was even good raw.  No one could make piecrust like my little Irish grandmother.  Years later, my aunt Wanda told me that it was just Betty Crocker’s recipe and could be made pretty easily by following the instruction but this is not true;  grandma perfected this combination of ingredients over the long decades of her life.  To this day, my crusts never turn out like hers did, even after watching and assisting her for years. 

With all her wisdom and grandmother senses, she knew that this little boy would tear into the pie as soon as it came out of the oven unless she had something else to give me as a distraction.  In a pie dish, she would bake the leftover curst sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar for me to devour right away.  There is nothing in this world like sitting in front of the oven door looking through the window at a warm bubbling concoction of butter and sugar.  Of course, my pie crust would be done before the entire pie and would satiate my craving for sugar long enough for the pie to cool and dinner to be served.

The marvels of the kitchen did not end with fresh baked bread and pies; there were all sorts of gadgets to stretch the imagination of a young boy.  There was a hand cranked meat grinder permanently attached to the counter on the far end of the kitchen.  It was fastened in place by a vice and the surface of the metal was burnished and scraped by many years of use.  Although it was rarely used these days, it was always there.  In the nook under the secret stair was the most unusual drawer; it was shaped like a quarter of a barrel and hinged on one side.  When it was open, it revealed this large half rounded space for storage.  It must have been originally intended for loose grains or perhaps potatoes but grandma used it to house lots of containers of white sugar, brown sugar, oatmeal, flour, and salt.  It was comical to see her reach in and dig for contents on the bottom because half her body could fit in this thing before she got what she wanted.  The drawer-thing was not very practical but seemed to fit the kitchen in some odd way.

My grandmother was born during the great depression and was brought up with a mindset that nothing should be wasted or thrown out unless it no longer had any use.  She would keep every plastic tub from the margarine and buckets of ice-cream; all of the uneaten food scraps went to feed the feral cats in the backyard and the paper towels were treated like a precious commodity.  Grandma kept a close eye on those paper towels.  Since they could not be washed and reused, they were only to be used in rare occasions.  Back then it seemed odd to me that she would get so worked up about the paper towels but now it is as clear as rain.  She was cognizant of the resources that she used and did not take their existence lightly.

Those empty tubs of margarine made their way all over the region.  They probably made it all the way to Alaska where my aunt and cousins lived on a remote island.  The mostly yellow plastic tubs with semi-transparent lids housed all sorts of edible delights that grandma would send off with visitors.  Sometimes they would have peanut butter cookies or blackberry dumplings; at Christmas they would be filled with fudge and decorated ice-box candies.  Most of the time there would be leftovers from dinner that I would take back to my mother’s house when I was done visiting my father.  Besides food storage, Grandma used the tubs to hold her vast collection of fingernail polish under the cupboard in the bathroom.  We kids spent hours in the bathroom painting toe and fingernails when our parents were not looking.

It is hard to imagine a time when grandma wasn’t looking out for us.  She may have been in the kitchen most of the day but she knew what was going on in our little corner of the world.  The sirens could be heard twice a day from the nearby village just on the other side of the hill; they gave order to our days.  At noon the siren would sound letting everyone know that it was time for lunch and again at six o’clock for dinner.   If I was not in the kitchen when the alarm sounded, I came running shortly after.  There was a beautiful rhythm to the world that echoes in my mind.  The high wine of the siren blowing over the hill meant that food would be served and hopefully some pie too.

Grandma was almost always busy in the kitchen fussing over something.  She would be wearing an apron over her day clothes and her meticulously painted toes would be exposed as she was usually barefoot.  She was a small Irish woman that barely stood five feet from the linoleum floor of the kitchen.  Her auburn colored hair was always styled perfectly and even in the kitchen she tried to look her best.  On Sunday’s she would put on her best garments and jewelry before heading to Mass in the morning.  Sometimes she would bring me along but most of the time she worshiped alone.  She had a personal connection with her God and that was good enough for her.  After saying her prayers before the altar, she would quickly return home to finish up lunch for everyone.

Not much about my grandmother was very modern and either was the kitchen.  She had a microwave and coffee maker but most of the appliances were old fashioned and needed some elbow grease to work.  That is what made everything taste so good; nothing came easily; it was created with intention and hard work.  These are values that were communicated to me in an unconscious way.  It is only now, through this reflection that I see grandma was cooking up more than just food in that kitchen.  She laid out the ingredients for a good life; the things that really taste good like hard work, common sense, and simplicity.  Even though grandma is no longer cooking in that kitchen, the heart of that house, she is always cooking something good in my heart.