I just returned from a week long trip visiting my Grandmother in Arkansas with my son and my dad. For every meal, there was four generations eating, drinking, and enjoying one's company. Every day I asked my Grandmother for a recipe for one of her famous desserts or prodded her to tell stories from when she was a child. Since I only make it out to visit her every four years I realized that this could very well be the last time I see her alive and I wanted to soak up all that she was willing to teach me.
My Grandmother, Louise, is an 89 year old woman. Raised on a working farm in rural Arkansas, she still rises before the sun. She's been growing tomatoes her whole life and can make a Blue Ribbon berry cobbler without having to follow a recipe. She's tough and sweet. She's buried two of her four children and her husband. She hates asking for help but generously gives it. She's survived the real Depression and has been known to hide money in a tin can in her closet.
I've always thought of my Grandmother as a picture-perfect 1950s housewife. She can rise at dawn to make biscuits and gravy from scratch, she still irons all of her clothes, and is the best baker in our family. My Grandmother stills keeps the same housecleaning schedule that she created for herself when she married my Grandfather at the tender age of 17. It's simple enough, every day has one major task plus light dusting and vacuuming. Her house always looks perfect. And she's never complained about how much work is involved in raising four children, keeping a tidy home, and cooking every meal without any help from anything in a box or can.
In my Grandmother's presence, I've always felt more than less-than-perfect. Sure, my full-time job is one in Corporate America and not one as the ultimate homemaker. I have a cleaning service; partly because I'm too busy to do it myself but mainly because I'm just too lazy to do it myself. I pride myself on making a healthy dinner nearly every night of the week, but have been known to refuse any request for breakfast that doesn't involve pouring milk over a bowl of cereal. The only time I'm baking is when I'm using a Betty Crocker cake mix for my son's birthday.
How did my Grandmother ever have time to do everything she did? More importantly, how was she ever able to find joy in what has always felt like agony to me?
One evening when she was showing me how to roll out dough for Fried Pies (a true Southern treat), I knocked over a cup of flour on the kitchen floor. Already feeling like a failure in the kitchen, my eyes started to well up with tears. I started to wipe up my mess as before the cloud of flour even had a chance to settle. I apologized and told her than I could never be as good of a baker as she.
My Grandmother bent over and started to help me wipe up the mess. And then she did something I never expected. She laughed. Looking at me straight in the eye she said "You can spend your whole life wiping up and you'd never even have a bowl of beans to show for it."
I couldn't believe my ears! My Grandmother was giving me permission to be messy. Or at least, creative license to define cleanliness. I realized that my Grandmother had spent the majority of her life taking care of other people and cleaning up after her children. She has clocked thousands (maybe even hundreds of thousands) of hours in the kitchen. But that still didn't stop her from growing old or save her daughter from Crone's disease or prevent a husband from dying before you had a chance to really grow old together.
It reminded me of the famous John Lennon quote "life happens when you're busy making plans." Only, in my Grandmother's case, she was busy making pies.
I know that my Grandmother doesn't have any regrets about how she lived her life. She loved her family and loved taking care of them. I even found out that she's never felt accomplished as a baker. With every recipe we made, she would tell stories of how her mother could always do it better.
When the week was over, I regretted not booking a longer trip. I felt like my Grandmother had so much more to teach me. I felt guilty for never taking the time to really get to know her before. Every time she pulled out a recipe, I asked if I could help. I would ask question after question. Part of me wanted to be able to do like she can. But a bigger part of me just didn't want her to stop talking, stop telling stories, or stop teaching me.
I've been home for three days now. My luggage sits, half unpacked, on the living room floor. The dirty clothes are practically begging to be washed. My kitchen sink sits full of last night's dishes. I'm sure if my Grandmother saw my home, she'd be appalled out how I keep house. But thanks to her, I've never been more proud of my mess. My Grandmother taught me that it isn't about how I keep my home, but about how I love the people who are in it.
Life happens when you're busy making pies. And I don't want to miss one moment of it.
Original post for the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog
