My grandma recently passed away. This was a huge loss in our lives, as she represented the place where no matter how long you had been away and despite the number of screw-ups you made, her eyes gleamed as she saw you. She never failed to be enchanted by your presence in her doorway.
Grandmas are a unique relationship where they are not responsible for raising you to be a functioning part of society, nor do they always listen to the rules set forth by your parents. They act as a place of unconditional and unassuming love, and they show it in all sorts of ways.
For my Gram, she most definitely used food as a form of love.
As I sat remembering my grandma, I thought of years of her cooking. In her last year of life, she was able to move closer to us, which allowed family to be with her every day. During one visit, the kitchen said they had fish for dinner, to which she turned up her nose, made a face much akin to what a little kid being served vegetables, and stuck out her tongue.
“Gram, I thought you liked fish?”
“No. Not really.”
“But you made it for Grandpa when we were at the lake. He would go fishing and then you would cook the fish he made. I can see you standing in the kitchen cooking it.”
“Well, I figured if he spent all that time trying to catch dinner, I should cook it.”
That is food as love. All this time, I thought she liked it. She delicately cooked it, ate it, and complimented him on the catch. Decades of this and she never even liked the stuff. Imagine! But my grandma was secretive like that – she would never tell you what she was really thinking or up to.
Being a Depression-era kid, Gram learned early on to use what you had and make it work. Shortly after getting married, my husband and I went to visit her, unannounced. When we got to her house, her face lit up and she insisted on making us a snack. Out she came with a bit of cracker, mayonnaise, and banana slices. My husband says if he sees a banana sitting on a mayonnaise jar, he will know Gram is saying hello.
Years of Thanksgivings she prepared from early in the morning until it was time to eat. My grandfather loved Thanksgiving. We had long tables full of food, punch, and desserts… all hand-made. My last memory of my grandfather was Thanksgiving, attempting to eat the food my grandma had prepared even though cancer had stolen his appetite: his way of showing her love back.
When she could no longer stand to cook this elaborate meal, she treated her kids, grandkids, and great-grandchildren to Thanksgiving at a local restaurant. The meal was prepared buffet style with all the traditional food, and she was so proud to provide us with this meal and experience. Although she could not make it herself, she was still using food as love.
Enter mincemeat and rhubarb pies. As an adult, these pies still sound anything but enticing to me, but to my uncle and father, they are a Heaven-sent delight. So, what did we have every single holiday? Mincemeat and rhubarb pies. It was not until about two years ago I realized she made sure these pies were there for her son and son-in-law.
Like many grandmas, when we walked through her door, she insisted something yummy was in our bellies before we walked back out. If she knew we were coming, she made dependable favorites for the person coming. When my cousin visited from California, orange cookies awaited her arrival, and when we were there, Jello was in the refrigerator for lunch.
Today, I cannot help but stop and think about my sweet grandma’s use of food as a form of love. It was not gluttonous or an obnoxious presence in our life. In fact, I did not even consider it until sitting down to write this, but it was there.
In the last year of her life, my family had the pleasure of spending daily meals with Gram.
My husband brought her chocolate-Oreo pudding and my brother made sure she had fresh, warm chicken. My parents kept her refrigerator stocked with all flavors of ice cream. How very fitting that in her final stay on earth, we could use food to show her how very much we loved her.
This intrinsic use of food was passed to my mother who does the same for her grand-babies. Yet, in the rushing of parenthood, I am not sure I am keeping up my side of this tradition. Perhaps in honoring our grandparents, we need to slow down and consider food as not just a thing to pass the time while scrolling on Instagram or to mindlessly stuff in our mouths while driving to the next agenda item.
You see, our grandparents are not just people; they are homes. When they are gone, we are somewhat displaced and grasp onto our memories to help us to find steady ground. The least we can do is try to take a part of them and pay it forward to those still here and change their lives in some way for the better, as they have ours.
Even if it is as secretive as using food as a form of love.
