Warm Memories

A lady laughed at me today after she asked me what I was eating. I politely said, “I’m eating a bologna and cheese sandwich.” She answered back saying, “You couldn’t afford to get ham or turkey?” I said, “I can afford WHAT THE HELL I want, I CHOSE to eat that.” Before I thought about it, I commenced to explain to her in a very irritated attitude that there was absolutely nothing wrong with eating bologna and cheese. She took those words, turned and walked away.

Shortly after she walked away, I began to reminisce of my childhood with my grandmother. I can remember as I sat in the hospital room with Gram, listening to her argue about not eating the hospital’s mashed potatoes, thinking how very fortunate we were. My mind went back to the times in the summer, when we played outside all day, sweating in the hot Louisiana heat, and we had bologna and cheese sandwiches. As a kid, this seemed like the tastiest meal in the world, especially if it was a hot day and the cheese would automatically melt on the bread from the summer heat. This was one of the best things for me as a kid, funny thing is I never knew this was all we had to eat most of the time. She had a way of making us feel on top of the world. I would never have known we were very poor. I can remember when we had field trips at school and I had a bologna and cheese sandwich. I was so ashamed most times because I knew we couldn’t afford ham or turkey or some other high priced meat that most people had.

I think back when I was watching her in the kitchen cooking, scurrying and humming as she worked. This seemed to be her happy place, in the kitchen. There were mornings we’d get up to the smell of food cooking, or every Friday to fresh baked pies that she sold. These pies were the best in town and all week long people called to “put in their order” for a pie on Friday. Many people came in and out of our house to pick up pies on Fridays and plate lunches on Saturdays. This was her “thing”. People always told me she was the best cook around, but I would never have known. I ate her cooking only, so I was spoiled. Even when she got sick, she still tried to cook. This was her love, her passion, her life’s joy and fulfillment.

The vivid memories I have are almost always in the kitchen. There was this old stool, just below an old rotary phone on the wall, that I would sit in and watch her cook. She craftily moved around that kitchen, moving like a ninja, doing more than one thing at a time. She was a jack of all trades and food was her trade. She could make something out of nothing and many times there was nothing there. She was the most interesting character, just to talk to her was a myriad of stories of old times. She would reminisce about her childhood as if it were yesterday and every now and again you could see a glimmer in her eyes and a small crack of a smile on her face. “Those were gentler, kinder times,” she’d say and she would elude to the hard times as “good old days”. I never understood how the concept of being poor, working in the fields, cleaning houses and barely having anything could ever be good, but the way she told it when she was cooking would make anyone believe what she said.

So as I continued to eat my sandwich, the very comfort food that brought back so many warm, cherished memories, I felt honored. Honored to know such an amazing human being. Honored to be a part of a life that was filled with happiness. Honored to know such a beautiful person could teach me a simple lesson in humility, just from a bologna and cheese sandwich.