Working in Grandma’s Kitchen
My grandmother was bold and brassy, fashionable and flashy. In the 70s, I don’t think she owned anything that didn’t have rhinestones. She liked road trips and sewing, and she loved to cook. Her cooking was legendary. Her peach cobbler and yeast rolls would cause fights at holiday gatherings. I was eight years old when she let me seriously work with her in the kitchen. Our first project was peanut brittle.
After adding peanuts to the hot molten toffee, we poured the mixture onto a buttered sheet pan, spread it around as much as we could, and then put it in the oven. The oven time was to keep the toffee hot enough to spread out and fill the pan. After maybe five minutes, Grandma opened the oven and talked to the peanut brittle.
“Aww look at that pretty baby.” she said. “Cookin’ up all nice and sweet.” Long wooden spoon in hand, she patted the mixture down a bit then closed the oven door. Another five minutes went by. She opened the oven again. “Yes indeed. Look at you all fine and delicious lookin’.” The peanut brittle came out perfect as always. Any time we baked, which was often, she always opened the oven and talked to the food. She called her process Cooking With Love.
The first time I was in charge of the oven—under her watchful eye—she reminded me to cook with love. Grandma lit the oven, and I slid the pan of cookies in. I felt ridiculous, but I opened the oven door and said “Looks good!” I gave the cookies a thumbs up and quickly closed the door. Needless to say, the cookies came out nice and burned.
“You’re not cooking with love,” Grandma said. “You’re just pretending.”
We put another pan of cookies in. At her signal, I opened the oven. “You’re beautiful,” I said to the cookies and closed the door.
“Nope, that wasn’t love. Try again.” Grandma stood with her arms crossed, a stern look on her face.
I opened the oven again. “Aww, you so pretty…”
“A little more,” Grandma said.
“That’s a beautiful baby, cookin’ up all nice.” I closed the oven door and Grandma smiled at me. This time the cookies came out perfectly. Nice and golden on the edges.
The next time we baked, it was a pound cake. When baking a cake, it’s not like you make extra batter to do over if you mess up, so Grandma kept a careful eye on me. At the appropriate time, I didn’t add enough love and she prompted me until I was practically cooing at the cake. I think I did it two or three times (pound cakes take a long time to bake). Turning it out of the pan, it was perfect. We poked holes with a toothpick and covered the top with a lemon glaze. I had never been so proud of myself, and I understood the importance of cooking with love.
Fast forward forty years. I’m standing in my kitchen, realizing that the oven is too hot to let my cinnamon rolls rise properly. I open the oven to let some of the heat out and it hits me. Grandma had an ancient, broken down stove. She had to light the oven every time she used it. The knob was missing. At one point, the door was held shut by a kitchen chair. Opening the oven and talking to the food for a few seconds was how she controlled the temperature!
I’ve been cooking with love for more than forty years. I don’t know what cooking with love means without opening the oven and talking to the food. Even with brand new, perfect ovens, even in professional kitchens, even though I know Grandma’s secret, I still can’t help but cook with love.
