Most of my childhood memories are from my Grandma and Grandpa Lee’s house. I absolutely loved going to my grandparent’s house. The smell of a campfire takes me back to their living room, the days of believing in Santa and waiting for him to come down the chimney. I loved helping my Grandpa stoke the fire.
Puff, puff, stir, crackle, crackle.
There were a lot of us that fit into their two-bedroom ranch style home. Whenever it was bedtime you couldn’t see the floor, because all of us kids were sleeping everywhere. They had a lovely sunroom that us cousins would fight over to see who got the pull out couch. I actually don’t ever remember winning that fight. But that’s okay, my perk was right in front of the fireplace, listening to the crackle and letting the embers sing me to sleep like a lullaby.
Every morning during our visits I would wake up to the voices of my family and their laughter. I would stumble my way into the kitchen, grandmas quilt wrapped around me, to the smell of bacon and toast. I’d go and skootch my way up to the counter, stepping up onto the step stool to the sight of toast piled high, like a bread balancing act and a big plate of bacon. Oh… the smell of bacon.
The toast would be buttered but I would add more, with a little peanut butter on top of that. Some mornings there would be scrambled eggs, sausage or orange juice to accompany this feast. But I secretly loved the main course of bacon and toast.
The toast was always made with grandmas homemade bread. I swear you could taste the love.
I say my grandmothers really are the ones who taught me how to cook. Both, with their love of food and wanting to deeply nourish their families.
When I got to the age of asking Grandma Lee how to make her famous caramel rolls, bread, donuts and orange rolls… she never could give me a recipe. We would make it, together, and whenever I asked how much of the ingredient her answer would always be,
“Until it feels right.”
That’s my favorite way to bake. Looking at the recipe as general guidelines to be followed. Never hesitating to add a little more or a little less flour, usually depending on the weather. Going by texture and taste not by numbers.
Every time I smell bacon and eat peanut butter toast, I get this overwhelming joy. Like a soul-hug. My mind goes right back to those sweet moments. I close my eyes and picture Grandma standing at the stove, cooking for her army. I see all my cousins bopping around the house, playing outside in their big yard, running down to the swing-set grandpa built.
I never knew back then that the smell of bacon could make me tear up. Even writing this, it’s happening. I loved those days. I am so thankful for my family who cared about me, who fed me, who loved me, who fought with me, who laughed with me, who taught me so much, maybe without even knowing it. My family who taught me how to love, how to nourish other’s bellies and souls.
Thank you Grandma and Grandpa Lee. For starting this family years ago. For loving all eight of your children and never running out of that love and letting it overflow into your grandchildren and great grandchildren. For feeding the army that overtook your homes floors all those weekends and all those holidays.
Let’s toast to the love that flows through the generations, the families that love you through all stages of this life and, to bacon.
When they landed, they saw a fire burning coals there with fish on it, and some bread…Jesus said to them, “Come and have breakfast.”
John 21:9,12