When hinking about a topic for my Fresh Fiction blog, naturally my thoughts turned to the holidays. Thanksgiving is less than two weeks away, and I have wonderful memories of sharing gut-stuffing meals with my family at my grandmother’s house. That woman could cook! She grew up on a farm in Texas, the daughter of German Americans. She told me that at the age six, she was cooking meals for the family and caring for her infant brother.
I can’t even get my 11-year-old to fix his own peanut butter sandwich.
My grandmother taught me to cook. She also taught me how to eat. Because of her, I have very little food fear. I’ve even eaten fried chicken livers. (And once, a goat’s rump, but that’s another story. Thanks, Mom.) Grandma made the best sauerkraut and sausage on the planet. She made heavenly banana bread-a treat I would look forward to when I visited her home. What is it about a grandma’s house that smells like comfort and love? It’s like inhaling baby powder and cinnamon and jasmine. The minute I walked in the door, I felt like I’d gotten a hug, even before she wrapped her arms around me and kissed my cheek.
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