The Art of Feeding

When I was young there was nothing I looked forward to more than spending time with my Grandma. Among a whole list of things, she was a caterer. There were times that I would go to her commercial kitchen and sit on the stainless steel table learning how to ball melon. I also enjoyed playing with the large, rusty can opener slamming it up and down until one of her sisters - Aunt Rita, Aunt Maxine or Aunt Cathie - would ask me to stop. How I never cut myself with that is still a mystery to this day. Other times we would work in her kitchen at home and I would be lucky enough to use the Kitchen Aid mixer. She had an entire kitchen of dishes, gadgets and tools that complemented her chosen profession. I loved watching her, so skilled was she in the art of feeding.

I can remember sitting at her kitchen table with hundreds of index cards and an electric typewriter - the fancy kind that typed in script. I would beg her to let me type up the cards, with her precious recipes on each one. I loved these cards because of the uniqueness of the type. Little did I know that I would one day long for them to be written in her flowing, beautiful handwriting instead.

I believe that one of the greatest gifts she bestowed upon me is my love of cooking. I often imagined that having me in her kitchen, all clumsy and inaccurate, would have been irritating at the least; but I found that teaching children to cook is truly special. The look in their eyes of pride, satisfaction and happiness is inspiring and I find myself sharing those same feelings with them. Whenever I have the opportunity to share this craft with others I do so with great eagerness.

My fondest memories of my Grandma - and trust me, there are too many to count - are always of us in her kitchen. We always had stimulating conversations and I was more than eager to learn. You could see that to her cooking was a way to show great affection to those that were lucky enough to share a meal with her. When I was in my twenties, I spent an evening catering a dinner party with my Grandma and her sister, Maxine. It was a small affair, but I loved the intricacies of that service. The menu was astounding and put together with such thought and care. Grandma and Aunt Maxine taught me a great deal about what it means to feed people - both body and soul - that evening. That lesson is what stands out to me the most all these years later.

I feel a special connection to her now when I'm in a kitchen. She passed away too soon - as people like her often do. And when she did, my Grandpa gave me her recipes boxes. There are hundreds of cards and scraps of paper in her handwriting and typewriter script, like so many love letters, that comfort me when the pain of missing her grows too much to bear.