Around five o'clock I heard the sound of steel on wood, of my grandmother carefully chopping onion and celery and perhaps bell pepper too on a wooden cutting board several times older than myself. The sound meant dinner not out of a box, but dinner made by hand from recipes earned in the daily labor of kitchen kept clean, measured not by spoon or cup, but by eye and tongue, more accurate instruments I came to learn. She stood next to the sink, wearing a small apron over a mid-calf length dress, the de-facto uniform that changed only color and pattern from day to day. Like rain on the roof, the steady chop chop chop of wrinkled hands was as close to the sound of love as I knew as a child. I miss that sound as much as I miss the woman. She is all but gone, as gone as the traditions of home cooked meals, prepared as masterpieces without a gallery, tribute paid in empty plates and scrambles for seconds, if seconds were to be had. Those pages of my memory have yellowed in the decades, but the sound of steady chopping, of metal on wood wielded by hands that love, has remained as clear to me as the rain that came this morning.
7 comments:
beautiful image
Thanks OB. :-)
This may very well be the most lovely piece of writing that you have posted, Poppet. I feel hugged.
The steadiness and consistency of the chopping, the attire, the presence, your words communicate, whispering audibly within the trusted rhythm, in a similar way to how the expressed sound embodies a complete memory, of days and years, of warmth stoves and warm hearts. Your love, your memories, she would have found in your eyes, a thought that evokes still more warmth.
Very special post.
Sunshine, my grandmother could cook like no other woman I have ever known. I think back on the meals she prepared and how much money I would gladly pay to dine on that fare again. Such, perhaps, is the view of the first grandchild to the material grandmother. As always, your kind words are most appreciated. :-)
I can picture in my mind clearly, and have since I saw it, a glorious sunset resting upon waves and sand and cheerfully colourful attire, but outshining both of these and the reason for its having burned itself into my memory, smiles wide and warm and true and completely contagious. Rolo smiles seem to run in the family. :-) Your grandmother is obviously from your words in the post and in comment a very special woman, your words confirm what her picture hinted of.
PS Is this where from the celebrated Spaghetti and Meatballs recipe originated?
It is. :-)
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