This narrative is where I believe it all started. This was the first paper that I really remember enjoying ever step of. Written in my senior year British Literature class on March 11, 2008.
As I trudged through the black, soot covered field, the sun beat down on my bare feet and tanned legs. As I reached the top of the hill, the few scattered pine trees provided temporary relief from the heat and the beige brick house was close in sight. When the carport door creaked open, I stepped into the spacious living room, feeling refreshed by the high running air condition.
Passing through the silent kitchen, the sun shone through the window illuminating the light lime cabinets, and the white tiled floor was cool on my bare feet. On the counter to my left, I noticed the ingredients lined at attention, waiting to be used.
I made my way to the back of the house arriving in my grandparent’s bedroom. The sweet, soft music flowing from the closet made me aware of Meme’s presence. Turning the corner, this was confirmed and I saw her with her curled grey hair, dressed in a periwinkle sweat suit. She stood over the ironing board, her right hand guiding the iron slowly over the white pillowcase, humming along to the radio.
“Well hey there, Hannah. I thought I would finish my ironing while I was waiting on you to get here,” she said in her gentle and comforting voice.
“Don’t stop because of me. We have all afternoon,” I cheerfully replied.
I stood in silence watching and listening as the back and forth of the iron kept time with the distant lull of the radio, and finishing, she folded the neatly pressed pillowcase into a small sqaure, placing it in a stack with the other linens Falling in step behind her, we walked into the kitchen, both excited about the task at hand.
“First things first,” Meme stated as we stared at the ingredient covered counter before us, “When you are baking, you always want your ingredients to be room temperature.”
I smiled as we began to work, following the step-by-step instructions listed on a small, tattered piece of paper. I separated the egg whites with her soft, cold hands over mine, leading by example. Hanging on each word she spoke, I mentally noted each and every baking secret she spoke of, amazed at the knowledge she had acquired over the years.
The roar of the white, hand held mixer filled the room and we both spoke louder to insure the other understood the words uttered.
“This is the most important part,” she stated, slightly louder but maintaining the same gentleness as before, “the pound cake got its name because you have to beat it a long time so that it turns out right.”
Holding the large, aluminum bowl with both hands, my Meme guided that batter into the creme colored Bundt pan. After sliding the batter filled pan into the three hundred and fifty degree oven, we began to clean up. As we washed dishes side by side, she told me that great joy she got from baking, especially with me.
As the afternoon grew late, the timer on the new white stove sounded notifying us of our cake’s completion. After slowly easing the warm, perfectly shaped, sour cream pound cake from the bundt pan to the cake plate, my meme cut two thick slices and places them on two small, flower printed plates. I stood on my tip toes, stretching my short arms to pull two glasses out of the cabinet to the right of the sink and placed them on the counter. After taking the half gallon jug of milk from the top shelf of the fridge, I filled both glasses full. Together, we sat down at the round, wooden kitchen table staring at the tiny black Phillips television. This is where we would spend the rest of the day, eating pound cake, watching The Waltons, enjoying our time together.
Throughout the rest of the summer, I spent many days in Meme’s bright kitchen sharing secrets and learning to bake most of her specialty deserts. As I have grown older, the visits and “baking dates” have become a rarity. Though many summers have now come and gone, this memory stands out in my mind and will forever be treasured in my heart.
Typing this narrative to share is the first time I have read the story myself in years. It is so strange to read about an event that happened to many years ago, yet I so vividly recall. Many things in Meme’s house have changed, the kitchen has been remodeled, the table replaced, a new free standing mixer has been added. One thing that hasn’t changed is my sweet Meme. She is still as gentle and loving as ever before. This story reminds me how lucky I am to have such a wonderful grandmother who has taught me so many things. Hopefully, she’ll be able to navigate her way around enough to read this. If you are reading, Meme, I love you so much and thank you for all you have taught me and continue to teach me!
Wonderfully Written 