A Century

Tomorrow, my grandmama would have been 100 years old. I lost her nearly 10 years ago, and a day never passes that I don’t think about her. I think she was the only person in this world that loved me unconditionally. She taught me a lot of life lessons. One of the many things that she taught me was how to cook. My mother never cared to teach me how to cook. She was only intent on teaching my sister how to cook, who to this day can barely cook a can of soup. My sister did master cornbread, but I doubt anyone could really live on cornbread alone. Anyway, I’m off topic.

Mama tried to teach my sister how to cook so she’d have the “skill” when she got married. My grandmama taught me how to cook because she recognized it was something I loved to do. I can’t remember Grandmama ever using a recipe. She had a box full of them that she’d cut out of magazines or newspapers. The box mostly sat on top of her refrigerator untouched. She cooked by instinct and years of practice. I’ve never known a better cook.

Part of it was the fresh ingredients she grew herself, but another part of it was that she cooked with love. I’m not going to try to be modest here because I’m a damn good cook. I learned to make Grandmama’s recipes from her showing me step by step. I also learned a lot from watching Food Network back when it was about cooking and not food competitions.

If I ever found a man I wanted to marry but he needed convincing, I think if I cooked for him, I’d have a ring on my finger before dessert. When I have cooked for or talked about cooking to non-family members, they all say I’d make a great husband to a lucky man. I think my charm and personality would help, but I’ve yet to find the Mr. Right. Again, I’m off topic.

I miss my Grandmama every day. Whenever I cook, I think of her. For years after she passed away, I’d round the corner in her house or walk through the kitchen and expect her to be there. At first, it made me so sad every time she wasn’t. Eventually, the expectation became less and less, but things remind me of her every day. For example, when I was young, we ate supper with Grandmama and Granddaddy every Wednesday night. She would often cook food she new I loved, but at some point in my life she got convinced that I loved meatloaf. I don’t know where she got that notion from, and I never had the heart to tell her that I hate meatloaf. If I had to eat it, I preferred hers, but it was not a favorite by a long shot. Nowadays, I’ll sometimes make a meatloaf and think of her. I always convince myself that it is something I want, and while, like Grandmama, I can cook a pretty good meatloaf, it also reminds me of how much I dislike meatloaf.

I loved her dearly, and I don’t think I’ll ever stop missing her.