Dear Nana

Dear Nana,

Countless times I think of you and the loving guidance you provided over the years, especially in the kitchen, your favorite place in the house. So many memories of our “kitchen kapers” are stored in my head. Our time together truly impacted my life and I deeply regret that I never told you how much your gift of time and patience meant to me.

I chuckle at the memory of you and I picking corn in a vast field along route 152. Dear Mrs. Enslow called to us from the shoulder of the road, “Could I help you?”

“No,” we both replied and explained that Ed invited us to harvest some ears from his field. We told her we could manage quite well between the two of us.

“Well, now,” she said, “you are in my field and I have two orders to fill today and cannot afford for you to take any of our corn.”

With red faces we handed to her what we had picked. She directed us to Ed’s field a short distance away. Although mortified by our error we giggled all morning as we picked. I still recall you saying, “I’m sure glad she didn’t call the police. Just think of the newspaper headline: Eighty year old granny and her granddaughter caught stealing corn from the Enslows’ field”. I must tell you, Nana, this story is still a favorite for retelling at family gatherings!

Picking was the easy part, if you discount the thievery; husking was the tedious job done in the shade of the garage. Stripping each ear was a muscle builder. Coming face to face with a fat worm was a disgusting annoyance to be hastily cut away; and, removing the “silk”, what a laborious task!! Of course swatting at yellow jackets drawn by the sweet smell of the corn added to the process. Actually I was the nervous one doing the swatting; you, however, calmly continued on with the tasks while the insects crawled on your sticky fingers and along the cobs as you held them. Never once do I recall you being stung.

We carried trays of neatly stacked clean ears indoors where you had several large kettles of water boiling on the stovetop. I watched you carefully lower cobs into the bubbling water. After blanching the ears you moved them one by one into a sink full of ice water to stop the cooking process. When totally cooled the ears were ready for the next step.

I can still picture your favorite “corn” knife worn thin from years of cutting kernels from hundreds of cobs. Your steady hand stripped each ear; then you used the back of the blade to force all the remaining juices and bits from each ear. Down into a large gray dishpan the corn did fall. It was my job to scoop the kernels into freezer boxes and store them away.

I fondly remember you using a dinner knife to gently prod air pockets out of the jars of tomatoes and peaches we were canning for winter use. When the Mason jars were “burped” you carefully wiped the glass threads clean, pulled lids and rings out of a pan of boiling water and placed one of each on all the jars. Into the canner you plunged the jars, processing them the appropriate amount of time.   Then I watched you pull them out and gently place them on folded towels covering the countertop. As the jars cooled, there was a symphony of “pops” signaling a tight seal. I relished the joy on your face as you listened to the sounds of success.

I can see your hands pushing the rolling pin back and forth over the butter cookie dough, constantly checking the consistency and thickness. You took such pride in making yours so thin that when held to the light the baked goodies were translucent. To this day when baking those cookies I ask out loud, “Is this thin enough, Nana?”

I remember the day you were settled into a room in “skilled nursing” at the Lutheran Community. You had a panicky look on your face as you asked me to search for your recipe box. I found it on the closet shelf. It was the one possession you cared most about in those final days. Cooking and baking defined you. They were among your greatest joys and accomplishments. You would not use the recipe box again. The brittle cards inside that held your secrets to success in the kitchen were passed onto me when you left this world.

The lessons you taught, the skills I learned both in and out of the kitchen have brought me much pleasure over the years.   I feel your presence in so much of what I do and consider you my special guardian angel. There are times I still find myself wondering, “Now, how would Nana do this?”

Rest well, Nana, and know that the time you spent on earth with me was not wasted. I have practiced hard to make you proud.

With much love, Sandy