My Mother’s Mother

My grandmother’s small kitchen was always a source of great comfort. I always loved being with her, and I always enjoyed eating her food — mashed potatoes, cornbread, biscuits and gravy, and, above all else, her fried chicken.

The best chicken, of course, comes from a cast iron skillet. She’d always fry the chicken in the same old skillet. And the way she breaded the chicken was exceptional — golden, flaky, and much better than anything we could buy at a store or restaurant. At family get-togethers, breasts, thighs, and wings from Food Giant’s deli were a staple, but none of that stuff could compare to her chicken.

Grocery store chicken is still a staple at Southern family reunions and funerals. The chicken isn’t just tasty — the big catering-trays do their part to save arthritic grandmothers and great-grandmothers from having to crack their knuckles while breading chicken breasts or thighs. But the crispy chicken at Food Giant isn’t quite as flaky or golden . It just doesn’t compare to the chicken I remember, prepared with love and the old iron skillet.

After she was gone, my mother remembered my grandmother’s sweet tea with fondness. She talked about not being able to have a cup of her tea ever again. My mother would often leave a little tea in the bottom of a glass, and walk off, and never come back for it. I have to confess, I developed the same habit with Dr. Pepper — never any other drink, just Dr. Pepper. I sometimes save the last bit of any bottle or can and hang onto it for at least the rest of the day, waiting for the right opportunity to savor it.

I have to wonder if we both had a deep-seated fear that this would be the last of the soda, or the last cup of tea. Of course, in time, she did have one of the last cups of tea ever prepared by my grandmother. And, at some point, I had my last piece of chicken prepared by her skilled hands.

I still need to get the recipe, I tell myself. I need to get the recipe for her cornbread, which tasted like cake. I need to start making biscuits like she did, and to start fixing my jam the same way — a little blackberry jam with a pat of butter swirled around in it. The ratio of the mixture was overwhelmingly jam, with just a hint of butter, and it was always delicious. Always.

Just thinking about her food, years later, feels like coming back home.