Remembering Grammie

By Michael J. Legeros

I remember Grammie's kitchen.  The tiny table and accompanying
chairs; the vast metal surface of the sink; the always-intriguing
"sewing drawer." (Who else but a child finds fun in the examination
of pins and needles?) Her kitchen was, perhaps, the most well-lit
room of the house.  Soft colors of blue and white, so very unlike
the darker, deeper reds and browns and greens that stained the other
rooms.  I remember the very narrow hallway that connected the kit-
chen to the dining rooms.  (Two dining rooms?) Half-pantry, half-
alley, that was the place to find sweeter treats.  A crystalline
bowl of Jordan Almonds or, perhaps, a big bag of Oreo cookies.
Grammie kept such stuff on hand, most likely for the legion of
grandchildren who also called that kitchen their own.  Bottles of
Coke-- or was it Pepsi?-- were often waiting for us in the 'fridge,
though, sometimes, we had to go downstairs, to the basement, to
"replenish the stock." My favorite treat, of course, was to be found
the counter, cooling from when she had set it there earlier.  No-
thing was ever as appealing as that big bowl of lemon soup, leftover
from whatever feast that Grammie had prepared it for.  I remember
returning to that kitchen-- at 7 or 8 or 9 in the evening, to claim
another bowl or two or three.  Grammie made many other foods, but
her soup stands firm in my memory; so firm, in fact, that, years
later, I was able to virtually recreate it from scratch.  No, I
didn't have a gas stove or an enormous aluminum pot or, even, a
fresh hen from Lunds, honey; but it tasted good and allowed me to
remember something even better.  In Grammie's kitchen.

Copyright 1995 by Michael J. Legeros