A twinkle in her eye, flour on her apron, pulling a fresh pie out of the oven, a dress in a pastel blue with small flowers (matching belt of course), a red bathrobe in the morning and her hair still half rolled on the sides and hanging down her back, the way she lifted her elbows out to the sides, kind of like a hen fluffing her wings...these are the things I am remembering right now as I think of my grandma who just passed away a few hours ago. I was watching our email to see if there was any news of her but it was a message on our answering machine that gave us the news. I feel sad about not knowing her better, about not being very good about calling or writing. It's too late for that now and I am glad she didn't have to wait any longer in her condition.
So tonight I got out the apples, the flour, sugar and cinnamon just so that I could smell that apple pie smell and think of her. She was a good woman, stepping back so others could step forward, nurturing and loving, spunky and good. The last time I saw her she apologized when I said that baking was in my blood and I tended to feel like sinking up to my elbows in a bowl of pungent bread dough when I felt blue, that it was like therapy for me. Her apology was directed toward the extra pounds that tend to accompany the love of baking but I can only be glad that she taught me (if indirectly) something that gives me great satisfaction. Go, Grandma, and be at peace.
