My Grandmother

We have been picking raspberries for over a week now and the rhubarb is ready to harvest as well. As soon as the heat wave breaks, I will bring it in and turn the stove on. Whenever I bring food in from the garden, I think of my grandmother. Her name was Myrtle but everyone called her Myrt and Miles had a 'Myrt's Cafe' sweatshirt when we were younger that she found a delight. It was appropriate because my grandmother ran a canteen for years at a local bakery. When I think of her, I think of warm blankets, soft pillows, sheets that smell fresh from the line and food. Mostly food. When I was young, I would visit her in the summer and spend everyday with her at the canteen. When we were not there, we were in her kitchen making homemade soup, pies, tarts, buns and anything else she was serving that week. Saturday's were always pies and tarts. All the kitchen counters and the table would get cleared, cleaned and promptly filled with flour. Flour everwhere. Her hands, her hair, her apron, the floor and my face. It seemed that flour was always flying as she rolled, flipped and rolled the dough again. By early afternoon the house would fill with the smell of apple, cinnamon, cherry and lemon eventhough the pies were always a little shorter on filling when I was visiting. One the of the best parts of Saturday was taste testing and then, of course, licking the spoons! My grandmother gave me the gift of appreciation for food fresh from the garden.