My Grandmother is a particular woman. She likes things the way they have always been and does everything her own way. She insists we call her Mary, her first name, because she believes being called granny makes her seem old. (She is nearly 81 years old). She cooks the food her grandmother made her, which is the same food her grandmother’s grandmother also cooked.
My brother, Geordie, is similar to my grandmother in that he is also a particular boy. He also takes pride in customs and traditions. He likes things in his world to stay the same. For this reason he loves the consistent tasks of measuring, weighing and timing that are involved in baking and cooking.
Each Monday night anybody in my family who happens to be in Toronto will head over to my grandmothers house for a hearty meal. She cooks one of a few staple dishes that always include a meat, a potato dish and some sort of cooked vegetable. The dessert is also one of a few sweet and delicious choices from the past; eclairs, short bread cookies, meringues, brown-stein pudding or gingerbread with homemade applesauce. Everything is always mouthwatering though my grandmother makes a big deal of pointing out flaws in each meal. She never believes they are up to the standards her own grandmother made.
Three of my cousins live in Toronto to attend University. This meal is a welcome change in their diet of cheap and fast food. For my dad and his brothers this meal is a path back to their childhood. For my mother this is a chance to be included into a big extended family when she does not have one at her disposal. Living away from home this is one of the major parts of my life I miss dearly.
My grandmother raised four busy children alongside my Grandfather Jim. Mealtimes were an important part of each day. Sitting down together was a tradition that my family continues to uphold. We all spend at least an hour cooking, eating and cleaning together. With everyone gathering together in my grandmother’s apartment, she takes the time to reminisce stories of her childhood, my father’s childhood and my Grandfather’s life. Though I was not present for much of this my grandfather has become a much more present person in my life than he would have otherwise, and stories of my grandmother’s childhood have become my stories as well.
Through these meals I have learned most of what I know about my past and present. We sit and talk about everyday things, relationships, frustrating events, exciting endeavors and plans. We look to both the past through food and stories, to the future by being the next generation to eat and share over our traditional food.
My brother is in that next generation of our traditional food makers. These meals to him are a culinary lesson. He makes a point to watch my grandmother carefully, particularly with her desserts, taking meticulous notes as my grandmother uses no recipes. Each time he tries at home he ends up with a slight variation of my grandmother’s specialty. No matter how many times he phones her for advice, which come in subtleties such as beat the eggs counter clockwise or heat the oven to 358 degrees not 375.
His meals, like my grandmother’s are delectable. He like my grandmother always insists that there is something wrong with them. A flaw that no one can notice, or a slight difference in consistency. Through these variations I wonder how the dishes have changed throughout the decades they have been served to my family members. Is my brother more or less on track than my grandmother, or how was my grandmother’s grandmother’s meal?
These suppers together are a comfort to me, a well needed break from stress. My mother always asks why I don’t learn to make them like my brother does. My mother’s parents died when she was younger and I never got the chance to meet them. She didn’t have a chance to bring as many traditions and stories from her family, nor does she have family to reminisce and remember the past with. Because of this I know only what my mother can remember which is not nearly as extensive as a whole table full of people with a common past.
I enjoy cooking as much as my brother and grandmother does but I think these meals are only a comfort with the company. The variance or flaws go unnoticed but the stories told stay with each of us forever. These stories grow in variance in the same way the food does, slightly adapted each time they are told by a different person.
Having my brother learn to cook these common meals without me has actually become a comfort. I know that years from now these suppers won’t be just a story told at my dinner table. The family will change and grow but instead of making these meals alone they will continue to bring us together. The stories will change and the food might as well, but having a place to meet, enjoy and share a meal is a special tradition started long ago in my family and my brother’s knowledge in these meals will ensure this tradition continues into the next generation.
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