Grand-Maman Polente
The healing power of any meal cooked by your grandmother
As kids we used to scream “Grand-maman Polente” at the top of our lungs every time my grandma’s dusty green car slowly parked in front of our house. You know how kids are. Grandma got named that way very quickly when we realized that each of her visits meant we could witness her tiny silhouette in the kitchen, leaning over a pot of gold, thick and cheesy Polenta. To us, she wasn’t a regular visitor anymore, she was special. Her visit meant that we would get loved in the unconditional ways grandmas love you: through food. I always thought those people deserved a special seat in heaven. You know, the one where you get a side-holder for your drink and to which snacks are delivered at the right time, without you even knowing you were hungry.
Grandma told me the other day that she would inform me soon enough if she got that kind of special spot. I laughed with her, then thought it was sad, but also so much like her. That special lady has been waiting for death like a well-deserved gift, with dignity and very little fear. She makes me want to get old and wise like her.
Whenever the usual “à table” would resonate through the house, we would, for once, immediately drop our toys, untie my little brother from the fence, and run to the table. A beautiful golden plate would appear in front of me and I would stare for a few minutes while blowing on the steam as if I was trying to chase clouds across the sky. After being asked to say “stop” when I was happy with the amount of tomato sauce that was poured on the mountain of golden Polenta, I would stay silent. The first spoon was always the most magical: corn, cheese, tomato, and butter would come together in an explosion of deliciousness. You would sometimes find a special spot where the cheese stayed quite thick and became almost crispy from cooking on the sides of the pot. It would taste like the first day of the holidays after an overwhelming period of exams: surprising, warm, and well-deserved.
On the side of your plate would be a much smaller plate, filled with half a can of tomato tuna. Yes, I know, for a lot of people it does not sound as yummy as it does for me. For me and my brothers, this was the cherry on top of the meal. No wait, let me do better: it was the gorgeous drop of olive oil on top of a fresh burrata. The little cans of precious tuna were packed in a red and yellow carton box and my mum would always make sure there was some hidden in the pantry for those special occasions. Once in a while, my brothers and I would find the secret stash and we would end up quite quickly running around the house with big smiles and red lips. The tuna tasted like perfectly cooked dark red tomatoes with a rich touch of butter. It would disintegrate in small pieces on your tongue and leave you wanting more. One can was never enough. The day I realised I could buy it in stores I packed 10 of these tin boxes and finished it in a week.
A few days ago, I spent a little bit of time thinking about memories. It makes me sad to think that one day I ate my last Polenta from Grand-Maman Polente. But I am so, so grateful to think that I grew up eating that kind of loving food. I believe that every meal stays within you more than you think. In your blood, in your heart, and in your soul. Today my soul is full of Polenta and I love you, Grandma.
