A Soft Yellow Kitchen

My nana was to the kitchen like a honey bee to a flower. She happily buzzed around her warm yellow domain to fill our plates with love. The tang of simmering sauerkraut assaulted our senses upon entering the front door of my grandparents’ house. An Eastern European family, we hankered for dumplings, big blobs of batter that boiled and rose fluffily to the surface. We lathered them in sauerkraut or sweet and sour cabbage and then drizzled on a spoonful of turkey grease. It was culturally decadent.

Nana’s stuffing was always cooked inside the turkey and served in thick slices, not crumbles like today’s standard Stove Top. Her bread crumbs, seasoned with celery and onion and mashed together with eggs, were molded into a solid loaf inside the tin foil covered cavity of the bird. It was my favorite part of the meal, and even better when eaten cold the next day with just a dash of salt. 

If turkey or stuffed cabbage was not on the menu, then we would be treated to scalloped potatoes or haluski. The scalloped potatoes were baked in a rich white cream sauce and sprinkled with black pepper and a generous dusting of fresh parsley. The haluski was equally delicious, the soft egg noodles simmering with cooked onion and cabbage. Both starches were often paired with her breaded pork tenderloin or beef roast.

While it might sound cliché, my favorite dessert was my grandmother’s apple pie. The crust was light and flaky, a wonderful result of Crisco shortening. The baked apples inside were suspended in a clear viscous mixture of cinnamon, sugar, and tapioca. Eaten best at room temperature, this masterpiece had no need for fancy Cool Whip or vanilla ice cream. It was a stand alone star. She made one for my family birthday party every year, and there was always an extra mini pie baked just for me.

I have my grandmother’s recipes. She wrote them down at my request later in life. But she was such a natural cook that she had a difficult time recording her craft, often missing crucial instructions or giving vague measurements. If I had paid more attention to her cooking, then I might have known how to fill in the blanks. Today I’d give anything to know what kind of apples she used in that pie. But instead of working alongside her, rolling out the dough and coring the fruit, I had been content to simply taste the love.

Years later when Nana was in hospice, I remember bringing her a piece of pumpkin spice cake slathered in cream cheese frosting. I remember wishing I could have brought her a taste of home instead of a basic box kit. But she did not feel what I felt was a disservice to her lifelong passion. She only tasted a sweet treat. She saw her granddaughter coming to visit, bringing her the air of sunshine and something to make her happy. I was to my grandmother like that honey bee to a flower.

If I had paid more attention when Nana hosted the holidays, I would have seen that her soft yellow kitchen resides in my heart whether or not I can replicate her recipes. And if I had paid more attention when Nana lifted that forkful of cake to her aging lips, I would have seen that my grandmother had also been content to simply taste the love.