Non Fiction
Mother in the Kitchen
Grandma in ballet slippers
My sister and I were sprawled out on bulky wooden chairs in the living room. They’d been upholstered with what can only be described as cheap carpet and were home to a few fleas left by previous holiday makers’ dogs.
After our annual road trip, six hours south through Virginia and a while east to the shores of North Carolina, we’d finally arrived at Rodanthe Resort again. I had been counting the days since school let out because this week, it would be all swimming and sandcastles, and there would be no time limits on the TV. Being three years older, I had the final say on what cartoons we watched, and Animaniacs was up next.
Nine years old now, I also had to help when my sister didn’t, and I could hear Grandma parking the 4x4 Bronco in the drive. They were back from grocery shopping at the Food Lion down the road and I knew I’d miss the first part of the show.
“Ty! Get on out here and help us unload these groceries, please!” she called.
“Okay!” I called back, handing Chelsea the remote and pulling my long blonde ponytail tight.
Barefoot, I made my way out, careful not to step in the stickers. Bypassing the arsenal of grocery store fireworks in the trunk, I grabbed the nearest brown bag to me, relishing the smell of fresh paper and ripe tomatoes. I knew the other contents like the back of my hand – it was full to the brim with summer beach week staples – canned tuna, Wonder bread, Utz potato chips, grape jelly, and Canada Dry ginger ale. I carried it to the kitchen, plunked it down on the peeling laminate counter and headed back to the Bronco for more.
The energy in cottage number 9 was beginning to stir. Dad and Grandpa may have been making themselves scarce with their big red cooler full of Bud Light on the screened-in front porch, but we girls were bustling. As I trekked to and from the truck, Mom and Grandma unpacked, organising the food for the week and keeping all the fried dough essentials on the counter for easy access.
The first night was always fried dough night. The granulated sugar, in all its one-pound bag glory, was proudly perched next to the vegetable oil and Martha Washington plain flour. Mom and Grandma were flapping about a thousand things – which meals to make on which day, whether they remembered the cereal, and had anyone seen the beach cake yet? And there I was, still barefoot and teeming with excitement over fried dough.
“Get back to the living room with your sister, Ty. I can’t organise with you in my hair like this,” she told me as sweetly as she could in the kitchen chaos. I had completely forgotten about Animaniacs.
“Okaaaaay, but promise we’ll make fried dough tonight?”
“I promise. Now get on over there,” she said, smiling.
Chelsea was still hypnotised by the cartoon antics when I whispered in her ear, “Psst! It’s fried dough night!” She shot me a grin and an unspoken truce was made – no bickering or brawling until tomorrow.
“Girls? Go on into your room now and get cleaned up for dinner,” Grandma shouted from the kitchen.
We scampered off in a tizzy, reappearing just as soon as our PJs were on.
“Chelsea, you put the knives and forks round the table and Tyler, you know what everyone likes to drink with their dinner,” Mom said idly while cutting open a plastic bag of Kraft parmesan cheese.
The spaghetti came and went. We were up and ready to clear the table the moment Dad put down his fork.
“Can we please be excused?” I asked him.
“Don’t forget to push in your chairs,” he replied.
And with that, we set to work clearing the table, the last hurdle before fried dough.
He and Grandpa headed down the dirt track to the fishing pier on foot to buy more beers for the front porch. The warped screen door slammed shut on their way out and we were glad of it. Just us girls now to giggle and chirp away.
Grandma called for me to bring a chair for Chelsea to stand on as she began pouring the dry ingredients into a shiny metal bowl. Chelsea mixed while I was allowed to break the eggs.
I was careful not to let them fall on Grandma’s feet. She always wore pink ballet slippers indoors and I wanted to be just like her in every way. To me, her elegance was contagious and her sweet giggles were what flowers would sound like if only they could sing. I savoured every moment she spent with me, but I knew Mom and Chelsea did too, and I liked to share her with them.
With the mix ready and the oil hot, Mom reminded us how to safely drop the little balls of dough into the pan. They sizzled, transforming from sloppy beige to sweet yellow, golden, and then crunchy brown as we flipped and turned them. I tried to focus, but the buzz and flight of black flies hitting the fluorescent light panels above was distracting.
“Keep your eye on ‘em, Ty. You don’t want to burn us with that hot oil,” she gently reminded.
“Yes, Mom. Don’t worry, I can do it!”
“I know you can. You are so capable and determined in all you do,” she replied, and my heart nearly burst.
Time to take them out – they’d inflated with warm air to nearly double their uncooked size. I carefully lay one at a time on my sister’s big plate of granulated white sugar for rolling. She took pride in her job, too, even at six, and each ball was lovingly covered before reaching the cooling tray.
We had several rounds to go, as we could only make a few at a time in the pan. But after the first set had cooled just enough, we girls gathered round. Elbows on the peeling laminate countertop, Chelsea still standing on the worn wooden chair, we each bit into a sugary dough ball as the flies hummed above. We giggled at the sugar stuck on our lips. We relished it. We were content in the salty air.
“Kelly! When’s that dough gonna be ready?” Dad called from the porch.
The moment was over; I saw it in Mom’s eyes.
“It’s a man’s world, Ty. There’s little peace to be found and fried dough night is no exception,” Grandma said, resigning herself to it.
“I think I know what you mean, Grandma,” I said, eyes falling downward.
“But we can still have fun!” Mom quickly added, and we set to work.
