A Cobbler Journey

This morning we woke up bright and early after a restless, sleepless night for me and a peaceful night of slumber for Georgia. (I know, a rarity). We decided to hop on the bike and make a surprise sunrise ride over to Granny’s house. I threw six peaches in my backpack along with a stick of butter, hoping to make a peach cobbler over at Granny’s house. When we arrived at Granny’s I got right to work on the peach cobbler armed with a fattening “Paula Dean” recipe I got from Food Network. As I sliced peaches I glanced around at the kitchen I grew up eating and cooking in. It’s newer now, with a fancy stove, and shiny new oven, but in so many ways, it’s the very same kitchen I have known all these years. I looked for flour in the same yellow Tupperware container that my mom has had since the 70’s. I opened the lid and remembered the multiple times I had spilled the entire container on the floor or opened it to realize after I had cracked three eggs that we were, in fact, out of flour. I remembered running next door to borrow a cup of sugar or an egg from a friendly neighbor so I could rush to get my recipe ready by the time my mom got home from work. I remembered my first cookbook, with its red-checked cover and tattered pages. I remembered my first masterpiece, Frosted Meatloaf. A traditional meatloaf in many ways, but “frosted” with mashed potatoes, and sprinkled with cheese on top. I was BEAMING with pride when I served this gourmet feast to my family around the age of 9. I remember feeling outraged that my family didn’t spend their entire time at the dinner table telling me how amazing I was for cooking dinner and how incredible it tasted. I had an overwhelming appreciation for the fact that my mom did this every night. All these years she had slaved away so my hungry little mouth could eat. Had I ever even said “thank you?” How ungrateful I had been for all these years. (Quite a realization for a 9 year old.)

Standing in my mother’s kitchen today I thought of my daughter. I thought of how she would grow with all the happy memories and painful trials that we all have. I thought about her first “masterpiece” in the kitchen and how I would rave about it when she put it on the dinner table. I thought about how Georgia will have so many happy times with her “granny,” as she grows, many memories that I don’t share with my own grandmother due to the distance between us as I was growing up. I thought about how much Georgia has grown already; she’s becoming a little girl. I felt proud. I felt like a mother.