Saturday, 04 July 2009

• Remebering Gramma

   by Mama Seahorse

  
  

  
  

  
  

  My Gramma was from the south.  North Carolina, to be exact, where the drawl wasn’t exactly thick like Texas, and wasn’t muddy like Georgia, but it was sweet and lingering, just enough to make you think of a warm and sticky summer’s breeze and the sound of ice clinking against the inside of your chilled glass of sweet tea.  She had long since lost her own drawl when I came along, but she held onto that southern spirit and gusto.  Southern women might have been known for hospitality, but they were also known for being strong and in charge.  She was no exception.  Show up at her house around dinner time, and even if she hated you, she’d set a place at the table for you.  “A person’s gotta eat.” She’d say, and she would go in the kitchen and gather up some eatin for whoever it was.  There was always enough.  Always more than enough to feed any mouth.

   

  Her mother had modeled this for her.  I was told the story of when my grandfather, very young and dashing, was beginning to frequent the table of my great-grandmother so that he could visit my Gramma.  She said she was in the kitchen fixing up dinner with her mother and my grandfather, Tom, was sitting at the table, waiting.
  

   

  She whispered with her mother in the kitchen:

  “Don’t put eggs in the potato salad.  He doesn’t like eggs in his potato salad.”

   

  And my Gramma’s mother said, with conviction and with sass, “Don’t tell me he don’t like eggs in his potato salad.  Watch this, I’ll tell you what we’ll do…”  and she proceeded to chop the hard-boiled eggs into the tiniest pieces anyone can imagine.  Not willing to sacrifice her winning recipe for one handsome man’s taste, she dumped those chopped up eggs into the potato salad, and he ate large helpings, praising her for the unbelievable taste.  My Gramma smiled, and shared that secret between she and her mother for years and years.

   

  Gramma and Granddad had been married for 45+ years when she shared this story with us.  My grandfather, listening nonchalantly from another room called in and said, “You never put eggs in your potato salad!” 

   

  She hollered back, exaltingly: “Listen, Stubborn!  I did it that day and I’ve been doing it ever since!  You’ve been eating it that way for over 40 years, and you’ll KEEP eating it that way, and you’ll like it!”  And he wagged his head, and then he did exactly what she said.  He continued to eat it that way, and he liked it.

   

  When she passed away, just a few months after they celebrated their 50^th wedding anniversary, none of us expected to be creating and sharing holiday meals without her so soon.  She was supposed to outlive us all, with all that spunk and attitude, we all thought death itself would cower in fear under Gramma’s pointed finger.  That, or she’d invite death to dinner and feed him until he took his leave politely. 

   

  But that didn’t happen, and she was gone all too soon.  And when my grandfather came to Christmas dinner, he carried with him a large bowl of homemade potato salad.  We recalled the story and laughed for a few moments, enjoying the memory of our beloved lost one.  And then I asked, “So, did you put eggs in here?” as I put a mouthful onto my fork.  “Nope.” he said, and the room was silent for a moment.  There was something missing in that moment.  Though we knew he had waited for 50 years to have potato salad the way he said he liked it, we also knew that something was lost.  Not just the eggs, but the defiance, the spunk, the gumption that came with those teeny tiny chopped-up eggs in that potato salad.  The lessons she taught us through her cooking and her sharing.  The life she lead through her small kitchen adventures. 

   

  We missed her that day.  And her eggs.

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