Losing a Grandparent

I lost my grandma in 2019, before covid-19 took over. She was a kind soul, a simple person, frugal-extraordiniare, Norwegian. She felt at home in the kitchen where she would make us rice dipped in milk and dotted with cinnamon. I can taste it and feel the nostalgia. I was gifted her cherished recipe book as a reminder of her goodness and a farewell. I don't even cook. But I like seeing the cookbook tucked away in my kitchen. It adds warmth and love to my cookless kitchen. All I need to do is look at the book and remember her. Her smile, beauty, grace, and kindness. What a gift.

Before she passed, she asked me to join her in the kitchen one day. It was odd. I do not coexist with kitchen life. Important backstory- she started noticing severe issues in her lungs about a year before she passed. She never smoked a day in her life. Barely tasted alcohol. Exercised more than most Gen Z's. She used her roller blades every morning as my grandpa rode his bike. Heartbreaking. Those happy memories filled my mind as she asked me into the kitchen. I could tell that her health issues were getting to her. She wanted to spend more time with her grandchildren.

I tossed away my frustration with being asked to join her in the kitchen and tried to embrace her fleeting presence. She looked tired. But she refused to pass the baton to anyone else in the kitchen. My grandpa did not know how to fry an egg and he was not trusted anywhere near kitchen appliances. Like me, cereal, is his specialty. She pulled out that recipe book I mentioned earlier.

We all knew that she loved that book. We sure loved the recipes. Many of them were Norwegian based and family favorites. I held the cherished book after she handed it to me. It felt like it contained family secrets and laughter. She smiled and laughed knowing that I was out of my element. I laughed back. She explained that her health was failing her, and she reminded me that I was her first and oldest grandchild. She wanted me to keep the recipe book. Of all people, me?

Not just that though. Because that would be too simple. She told me to open the book to a bookmarked page. I complied and noticed that it contained a heavily highlighted page. The page referenced a German dark chocolate cake that she baked for my birthday the previous year. It was delicious and I kept asking her for the recipe (we all knew I wasn't going to make it) at the time.

She explained that it was the last cake she was likely ever going to bake. I held back tears. On the one hand, I was honored, but I could not bear the thought of losing this matriarch. She explained that she hoped I would make that cake one day for my future grandchildren or more likely, open the cookbook a time or two! All I wanted was to make her smile, so I said, of course! Knowing full well that I would need a couple helping hands in the kitchen.

I ended up putting the precious cookbook down and looked at her. Really looked at her. Oldest grandchild to the matriarch. Tears welled up in both of our eyes. I wanted to tell her how much I loved her, how much she meant to all of her grandchildren, how much we wanted her pain to stop, how much her cooking meant to us, how much that cookbook was her heart in one book, how much her home was really the only "home" I've experienced, and how much her smile warmed a room.

I realized that she understood in that moment. My eyes conveyed it all.