Grandma's Hands

Susan bent in front of the oven and peered through the glass. The chocolate cake was rising nicely. Knowing when to take it out was part of the trick to the perfect cake. She thought of all the summers she had spent at her grandmother’s in her little house in St. Louis, the scent of chocolate wafting through her memories. They had baked this recipe over and over, and the entire family would acclaim their perfectly symmetrical triangles of pure chocolate bliss every time it was served. It was a birthday special request, but there were a lot of birthdays in the family. By the time her grandmother sold her house and moved into an apartment, Susan could bake the recipe with her eyes closed. She knew the exact moment to take the cake from the oven, the exact degree of coolness before she slathered it with a generous amount of cocoa frosting.

But that was a long time ago, and it had been a few years since she had baked. Susan reached up to the countertop to pull herself to a standing position. Her knees creaked like the squeaky door of grandma’s old house. She took a deep sniff and suddenly remembered the exact smell that said the cake was done, and this was it. She pulled out her potholders and pulled the cake from the oven, setting the pan on a rack to cool. It did look perfect. She turned to the bowl of fluffy chocolate frosting which she had already mixed and gave it a stir. It was ready.

When she was very little, her grandmother would stand her on a chair and she would observe, occasionally being honored with a stir of the batter, or a whir of the mixer for the frosting. Grandma’s confident wrinkled hands would pour, measure, scrape and magically the cake would come out the same every single time. At the time, she hadn’t really thought about it, but now she knew it was from years of practice. Chocolate cake was really the only thing that Grandma ever baked, and spaghetti was the only meal she would cook. She realized that she had no idea what Grandma and Grandpa ate when there was no company, because all her memories were filled with was large plates of spaghetti and meatballs, and slices of perfectly baked chocolate cake. She never thought to ask Grandma why she didn’t bake other treats or cook other meals. She just accepted that when it was time to go to Grandma’s house, there would be spaghetti. Although Grandma had dark hair in the old portraits hung around the house, she wasn’t Italian. Her family was German and French, so the spaghetti was probably not an old family recipe. Unlike the chocolate cake, the spaghetti wasn’t special. She used boxed pasta boiled in salted water with a little oil (“so it doesn’t stick, Susie!”) and a jar of tomato sauce. The meatballs were handmade, so that helped, and there was always garlic bread made with slices of white bread, buttered and sprinkled with garlic salt. The garlic bread was cooked under the broiler so the top was hot and crunchy while the bottom was still tender.

My, she was on a journey down memory lane today. Of course, it made sense. Today was Grandma’s 100th birthday. She hadn’t requested the cake; she didn’t remember Susan’s name, let alone a cake they had baked together dozens of times. The dementia had gotten really bad over the last couple of years, and now when Susan held her wrinkled, bony hand, her eyes stared out into the distance at a past that only she could see. “Mama? Come and get me – they won’t let me leave school.” Susan would answer back, “Yes, your mom will be here soon. Everything will be ok.” She would wheel the wheelchair to the farthest, most quiet part of the common room, where there was window that looked over a garden. Grandma had loved gardening, and now this view seemed to give her a sense of peace. Today, Susan would bring her some cake and they would look at the garden and just be together. That’s all Susan had left with her Grandma; she was now in a place and time in her mind where Susan hadn’t even been born yet.

The cake was cooled, so Susan spread a thin layer of frosting over the cake. Grandma would explain to her why the crumb coat was so important (“Helps your frosting stay smooth, Susie.”) Grandma could crumb coat the cake in 30 seconds. It took Susan a little longer, especially now, when her fingers were stiff from arthritis that was beginning to set in. She glanced at her hands and was struck by how much they looked like Grandma’s hands back in the day. Well, no wonder, she was getting old herself. With the crumb coat finished, she dolloped on a generous amount of frosting and smoothed it in the familiar swirls that were a signature of Grandma’s chocolate cake. She put the cake in a carrier, and snapped the lid closed.

Driving to the nursing home, memories of Grandma’s house danced in her brain. Her cousins wrestling in the front yard, Grandpa smoking at the dining room table as he dealt a round of cards for Euchre, the smell of turpentine in Grandpa’s art studio in the former garage. She would walk around the house and study the paintings – owls, wolves, old barns, and, over the fireplace, a grand flying eagle. Where were all those paintings now? Did some of the cousins have them? She had one, a white owl on a snowy background, but she wasn’t even sure where it was. She should find it and hang it up again. She would do that when she got home.

Susan signed in at the front desk of the nursing home and picked up her name tag. The nurse smiled warmly at her; she was a frequent visitor. Some of the residents never had visitors, and the nurses and staff were very appreciative to those who came to keep their patients company. The lobby smelled like the large bouquet of gardenias that sat on a round maple table in the entry.

“How is she today?” asked Susan.

“I checked on her earlier, and she was about the same. She was looking for her sisters.” The nurse smiled a sad smile. “I told her they would be here later.” They wouldn’t, of course. Her sisters had died many years ago.

“It’s her birthday – I brought cake!” Susan said. She held up the container. “It’s a special recipe she and I used to bake together when I was young. I hope she likes it.”

“We’re having a little party for her in a little while – we don’t get many 100 year olds!” What remained unspoken was the thought that she wouldn’t know she was 100 – she thought she was 15. And honestly, who could blame her?

“I’ll just run down and bring her to the common room.” Susan set the cake down next to the gardenias and walked down the hallway. The nurse buzzed the lock so the door to the resident rooms would open. She walked to the end of the hall. This hallway didn’t have the scent of gardenias to mask the hospital smells that emanated from the patient rooms. She tapped on Grandma’s door and a small voice told her to come in.

Grandma was dressed for the day in a pretty purple sweatsuit. Sweatsuits were about all she could wear in the wheelchair. Somebody had washed and fixed her hair for the party. The white wisps fell softly around her small wrinkled face. She was sitting in her wheelchair with a strap across her waist, and a pad underneath that would sound an alarm if her weight was no longer there.

“Hi, Grandma.” Susan said brightly. She smiled softly.

“Hello. Have you seen my sisters?”

“Not yet, but I thought we could go for a walk down to the common room to look at the garden. The sunflowers are blooming.”

“Oh, I love sunflowers! They’re my favorite!”

“I know, I thought you would like to see them.” Susan took the wheelchair and pushed her Grandma out of the room. Her mind was racing with memories of her younger Grandma painting pottery and playing the organ that had the place of honor in her living room. She and Grandpa had always teamed up at Euchre and were unbeatable.

She parked the wheelchair in front of the window into the garden, and Grandma delighted over the tall sunflowers that gracefully stooped their necks to show off the yellow and brown beauty of their flowers. They moved lightly in the breeze.

“Grandma, I made you a cake for your birthday.”

“It’s my birthday? Oh my, I had forgotten. How lovely. What kind of cake, child?” The fact that Grandma was calling her, a 60-year old, child gave Susan some hope – at least she seemed to remember that she was somebody she knew.

“It’s your special chocolate cake. The one that you taught me to make.”

“Oh, I don’t bake, silly. I’m too young. My mom won’t let me use the oven.” Susan sighed. Of course, it was too much to hope that Grandma would remember. All she knew was her parents and siblings, all long gone. She knew Susan was familiar, but of course wouldn’t know that she was her granddaughter.

“Would you like to try a slice?” Susan smiled at Grandma, and a smile rose back from the wrinkled face.

“Oh, yes, please. I love chocolate. It’s my favorite. My grandma used to bake me a chocolate cake on my birthday every year, but she died a couple of years ago and so I don’t get to have it anymore.”

Susan knew this story. Her great-great grandmother was an excellent baker and made many types of cakes – each of her grandchildren got their favorite. After she passed away, of course, the cakes stopped. Grandma’s mother had found the recipe for the chocolate cake in the pile of cookbooks she inherited and had given it to Grandma. She baked it over and over until it tasted just like what her Grandma had made.

She got a plate and fork from the snack table, and a knife, and cut a small triangle of cake and brought it to her grandmother. Grandma’s eyes were dancing with excitement. Her favorite! She took the fork and took a huge bite of cake. As she slowly savored it, a sweet smile crossed her face. “This is just like the cake my Grandma made.” She swiftly devoured the whole piece. She held out the plate to Susan.

“How did you learn to make my Grandma’s cake? What did you say your name was?”

“My name is Susan, and you taught me to make this cake, but you don’t remember anymore and that’s OK. I love you and wanted you to have it on your special day.”

“Susan? Susan is my grandmother’s name! Do you know her?”

Susan thought about it. Her great grandmother Susan had been gone long before she was born. But she did know her. She knew her through this cake, this special chocolate cake that had passed down through their family over generations. She knew her through this young, very old lady in front of her. She smiled as tears threatened to spill over.

“Yes, I do. I know her well. She said to tell you she loves you and she'll see you soon.”