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“A grandmother’s kitchen — where memories are seasoned with love.”
— author unknown
“Just like Sunday dinner at Granny’s house” was my first thought last week at the Lions Club, where fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, corn and hot rolls were served up for the civic-club luncheon.
Any meal my father’s mother cooked on any day of the week was the equivalent of Thanksgiving and Christmas dinner combined. I cherish the festive childhood memories of meals at her house that sadly ceased after my grandfather died. And meals like last week’s Lion’s lunch still remind me of those family gatherings like it was yesterday.
That’s a yesterday when meals were mostly enjoyed at home. The family sat down together to eat. No phones. No television. Fast food was yet to replace home cooking, TV dinners were still trendy and eating out somewhere other than the bus-stop cafe or the truck stop out on the highway was a rare treat.
It was a time when Mom’s meals on the table coincided with Dad’s arrival from work. You could set your watch by it, back when we wore watches that needed to be set.
Those were yesterdays when being in your seat at the dinner table was a request not open to debate. And failure to comply meant you’d better be so badly incapacitated that walking to the table was not physically possible.
Also not debatable was deciding whether Mom’s meal suited your taste buds. You ate what was on the table without question or comment. Unless you were saying how good everything tasted … including that nasty liver.
Although it was the age of “eat what your momma put on the table,” there was no way even the pickiest eater was going to leave the table hungry. And that went double for Sunday dinner at Granny’s.
The table that occupied my grandmother’s dining room, which now sits in mine, was the center of many meals. Common fare was fried chicken or ham, often both. Baked chicken and dressing were usually holiday delights. The meal also included mashed potatoes covered with cream gravy, steaming corn on the cob and hot rolls waiting to be buttered.
Plates were piled high, but not so high that the aroma of fresh-baked pie coming from the kitchen failed to remind you to save room for dessert.
For most grandmothers, including mine, cooking was a labor of love. Meals were prepared without a single recipe. Ingredients were blended with just a dash of this, a pinch of that and a lot of love. Everything came together at the same time, which was no small feat considering Granny could have a meal on the table and not miss a Sunday service sitting in her pew at the Pittsburg Methodist Church.
As a child, I never knew she accomplished miracles by spending hours in the kitchen Saturday night and Sunday morning before worship. I thought the plate I sat down to was just another measure of “grandmother’s meal magic.”
Watching her prepare a meal (if we promised not to get in the way) was more than magic. It was controlled, coordinated chaos — prepping chicken for the oven, mixing the dressing, peeling potatoes and pulling husks off the ears of corn. Her hands moved with the precision of a symphony orchestra conductor.
To this day, I don’t know how she did it. But when we heard, “Y’all come on, it’s ready,” the chicken was moist and perfect. The potatoes were fresh and creamy, waiting for gravy. And the corn? Dripping with butter, ready to savor every bite, row by row.
And then the most amazing thing happened. Once the blessing was offered and bowls started around the table, Granny wiped her hands on her apron, sat down and ate nothing. Just visited and waited on everyone else.
Honestly, meals today are still out-of-this-world good. So why do we long for those Sunday dinners at Granny’s house? Some insist the food really was better. Others say it was the tradition of gathering the family, not as common today as it once was.
I’m saying it’s a little of both — seasoned with a little love.
But while we debate this issue, could you pass me another piece of chicken … please?
