My Grandmother's Kitchen

My grandma fit the stereotypical image of an old Italian lady in many ways: she was loud and overly affectionate, she loved to drink wine and sing Dean Martin songs and she was more tan in the middle of winter than I could ever hope to be in my entire life.  But one stereotype my grandmother did not fit into was that of a good cook.  Her spaghetti was always watery, the chicken over cooked.  She could make a decent Caprese salad but so could anyone with the ability to use a knife.  Although dinners at her house tended to leave a bad taste in your mouth, it is because of her inability to cook that I am a less wasteful person today.

It was a Sunday afternoon.  My grandma and I had just come back from the park down the street and we were starved.  Having to eat meals at my grandma's house was typically a war between my raging stomach and my angry taste buds.  That day, my stomach won.

"Grab a bowl from the cupboard honey, I'm gonna make a salad," she said.

I grabbed a stool so my short 6-year-old legs could reach the old cabinet in my grandmother's house.  It was the top shelf, above the one filled with a million tacky knick knacks she had gathered over the years including McDonald's toys and troll dolls.

"Grandma, why do you have so much random stuff?" I asked her.

"That stuff isn't random, it is all meaningful!  Why would I want to get rid of it?"

I could hear the slamming of the fridge and several drawers as she assembled a million different ingredients for a basic tossed salad.  The first thing I noticed was the slightly brown, wilting lettuce she had placed on the counter.  I was young and didn’t know much about cooking, but I was pretty sure lettuce wasn’t supposed to be brown.

“Grandma, that’s gross!  We should throw that out.”

“Emster, it is not gross, it is good!  Trust me this won’t go bad for another week.”

She cleaned the lettuce and began adding three different types of vinegar, various spices and random vegetables to this gross mess she called a salad.  I chopped the carrots as she embarked on a story.  My grandma had grown up in New York during the Great Depression.  Her parents were Italian immigrants, but they wouldn’t let her or her siblings speak Italian in their small apartment.  They wanted their children to go on to have better opportunities than they had.  There were times when there was almost nothing to eat.  Her parents wanted their children to never have to live this way again.

The table was set with gaudy plates that were white with painted on green vines.  We brought the salad to the table and she told me to dig in.  Frank Sinatra sang in the background as I bit into the soggy, flavorful salad.  It was bitter, salty, soft but not quite unpleasant.  For the first time, I could taste what my grandmother tasted.  This wasn’t just a hodge-podge of random kitchen items; it was a gift she was sharing with me.  Each piece of wet lettuce was a delicacy.  The random nuts she had tossed in were rarities she wasn’t afforded as a child.  It was the best meal I had ever had at my grandmother’s house.

It has been thirteen years since that day with my grandma, but it is still fresh in my mind.  Though I never turned out to be quite the hoarder that she was, that day left an impression on me that lasted.  Now when I eat a steak, I smell the smoky scent, I indulge in the savory juices.  When I eat ice-cream I feel the cold imprint it leaves on my tongue and appreciate the sweet flavors.  When I eat a salad, I think about all that it took to come together.  I think how lucky I am to eat it and I am thankful.