This blog is meant to be a memorial to our Grandma, Helen Adams. She passed away almost 3 years ago and I still remember exactly what her laugh sounded like and exactly what her hugs felt like. Sometimes when I think of something she would laugh at, I literally reach for the phone to call her, even though I haven't spoke to her in so long. She was so many great things; kind-hearted, warm, generous, and she loved unconditionally. Not like people pretend to be-but really unconditionally. She was beautiful-in all ways a person can be.
She was a great mother and grandmother too. There was a bond between the women in her family, while she was alive, that was pulled together by laughing, and stories, and gossip over dirty dishes. I looked forward to the holidays (any holiday!) mostly for the cleaning up. Not because I like cleaning up-believe me!-but because it was so much fun to hang out with great women and laugh and tell stories. We would never have been all together in that kitchen talking and laughing if it wasn't for two things: Her and her cooking. I wish with my whole heart that I could bring Her here. Although I can't, I do have the other piece. As the next bride in line-I inherited all her recipes. I will randomly pull one to share each day, in hopes to offer here a little piece of what Gram loved to do and what she was so amazing at. I hope that her legacy marches on through great food and a love for meeting in the kitchen and cleaning up.
"There was far more to tell. Had I been asked to speak of it, I would have begun with the story of the generation that raised me, which is the only place to begin. If you want to understand any woman you must first ask about her mother and then listen carefully...But the reason women wanted daughters was to keep their memories alive. Sons did not hear their mother's stories after weaning. My mother and aunties told me endless stories about themselves. No matter what their hands were doing-holding babies, cooking, spinning, weaving-they filled my ears...It is terrible how much is forgotten, which is why, I suppose, remembering seems a holy thing."
-The Red Tent by Anita Diamant