One of my earliest memories is of being around 4 years old, sitting in my great-grandmothers’ kitchen as she prepared breakfast. She was an amazing cook, and I used to love the smell of her chuck steak and biscuits, especially her biscuits. They had lived in a small apartment in Chicago, before moving into a house attached to a grocery store on South St. Lawrence in Chicago. During those days, their house always smelled so yummy.
I remember watching her moving around that kitchen with such purpose, never in a rush, and usually stirring something on the stove with her left hand while she mindlessly reached for some spice or ingredient with her right. She always wore what I would later come to think of as an ‘aunt Jemima’ dresses, complete with apron, and, at least while cooking, a ‘durag’ covered her hair, and let me know when it was time to cook. She was easily the meanest person in a family of mean people, but had married my great-grandfather, who, by all accounts had had three children, but remained a father, instead of becoming a dad. He was also, by most accounts the sweetest grandfather around.
Still, I loved to follow her into the kitchen, standing close to the door in case she threw something at my head to make me leave. “Getcho lil ass out my damn kitchen, you black bastard.” Being the usual accompanying statement spat out as the utensil or pot landed near my head. I would learn quickly that these were ‘loving warnings as she could actually hit someone with those same items exactly where she wanted to, when she wanted. But I was little, so no permanent scars, thus the warnings. This may seem crass, but it
This happened less and less, as I learned that this particular person, just wanted to be able to focus on cooking for everyone. In this instance, it meant her husband, ‘Paa-Paa’, my father, usually my aunt DiDi, my sibling and myself. I was too young to understand how much pressure that must’ve been for her to cook for so many people. She never mentioned it, in fact she seemed to be at her loveliest in that kitchen.
It always amazed me how she seemed to created something out of a bunch of stuff, that I’d barely noticed. She would but butter and lard into a big black skillet, open one of the presents sitting on the table, put it into that same skillet, and then while it started sizzling, she would pull an onion out of her apron pocket, slice it up, and put flour on it, at the same time dumping a pile of flour onto the table. Then she would grab one of the cans, either lard or something she later called, ‘Clabber Girl’. And somehow? My favorite biscuits and gravy. After cooking she would set the food out on the table, after smelling all of the aromas coming out of the kitchen, you could’ve heard a pin drop as everyone quietly waited for her to say, ‘Sweet? comin eat.” ‘Sweet was what she called her husband. Not the only thing she called him, but the nicest thing, and only at meal time.
Well we kids ate biscuits and gravy because in my grandmother’s house, men ate first. So any men in the house would sit down, they got the biggest steaks, and the best choices of chicken, because they were ‘the bread winners.
When they were done, and she’d checked at least three times that they had gotten enough to eat, she would stand just on the dining room side of the kitchen door, glaring at them with her left eye while her right eye minded it’s own business. If the men didn’t get the hint after a couple of minutes, or if they stupidly forgot to say how good the food was, she would begin explaining to them that she had spent a lot of time preparing the food and that she’d wanted the kids to be able to eat it while it was still warm.
Well, gramma, being a woman of few words, and also the meanest,(and deadliest), person in our family, summarized all of these thoughts while standing with her hand in her ‘onion’ pocket’ with a simple: “All you sonsabitches Getcho asses up out them chairs and let those chillin eat.” This got them up immediately.
Then we kids could sit down. I should say that I was a sickly child, and really hated eating. The sound of chewing made me a little nauseous to be honest.I’d had an accident earlier that year, and had spent a significant time in the hospital. Because I had to have reconstucive surgery on many parts of my body, but especially my mouth, I hadn’t been able to eat without the use of a straw or intravenously.
But I loved her food.
After I finally came back home, I was allowed in her kitchen more. Partially because my father’s way of coping with me being ‘weak’ was to punch, push, or choke me, my grandmother would allow me to come into her kitchen to get me away from him. “I don’t know why he hate you but he do, so stay you ass in here, but don’t get in my way or imma beatcho ass myself.”
As I couldn’t yet smile without pain, or the history of pain, I simply nodded, and kept close to the wall.
Eventually she let me sit at the table in the kitchen.
Eventually she let me learn.
I learned about food. I learned what flour tasted like before you cook it. I learned that salt made all the difference in both sweet and savory. I learned that cans were for emergencies, and gardens were for food. And I learned that sometimes in the chaos of life, a kitchen brings peace and order. Food can’t cure a broken heart, but it can help to comfort one.
My great grandmother never taught me her full biscuit recipe, but I did learn to love cooking.
Eventually, she passed away, but she’s still lives on in my food, and my concept.
Although none of them ever knew much about love, as many people seem not to, but everyone needs to eat. And over the years I’ve seen great food bridge seemingly insurmountable divides from estranged family to making a sick child smile. I believe that I’ve made some improvements in the recipe for my family and my life, and maybe even in the lives of those around me.
All the years of trial and error, both in my life and in my kitchen, and I’ve finally gotten to a point where I can live with confidence.
It actually came down to a pretty simple recipe:
Feed what you love.
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