What defines me?

Cancer , A Dozen Kids , Life, Struggle

My love for cooking absolutely came from my paternal grandma. I lived in and out of her home much of my childhood and adolescence. She cooked from scratch having lived through very poor periods not much in her house wasn’t home made. It was from her I learned to roll my first biscuits. As I grew older I would use her recipes to teach my kids. The german way that she would blend the egg whites for our omelettes making them fluffy and filling. I remember being in the kitchen with her often. My grandpa taking every opportunity possible to steal a nibble. Taste testing in it’s finest. She was the family member that would cook and cater to my picky habits. It was the place where food didn’t feel like the enemy. She always had all my favorites. I was making some peanut butter bread the other day to send with Marc because he had a fridge full of jellies. The entire time I was in the kitchen I couldn’t get my mind off my grandma. I doubt I’d have the love for the kitchen had it not been for her. Not many other family members of mine are to fond of cooking. My grandma baked and baked at Christmas being there to throw down on the cooking baking to pass out for the holidays. I have always baked with the kids now myself at holidays and we pass them out to their friends in the neighborhood. I was not ever really included much in the paternal families traditions. I can remember a couple times I had been invited to join my dad but not many. I am for sure the black sheep but I haven’t ever really minded it. I find peace in sticking to the little family I created myself. I taught cooking club for 30 or so kids for several years and passed down so many of my grandma’s traditions. I never shared with her that her love and passion for cooking is being carried on. I don’t reach out to make any contact. She stays in my memory and nothing more.

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