By: Sharon L. Romine
I recall breakfast at Grandma’s. There I'd be all snuggled and warm under Grandma’s electric blanket, and Grandpa, passing by the end of my bed on the way to the kitchen, would reach out and grab my big toe. After I’d raised a fuss, he'd grumble about kids sleeping so late. It was usually all of 5:30 or 6:00. From the kitchen, I'd hear Grandma fussing, “Henry, leave that young’un alone, she needs her sleep.”
Slipping out of bed, I'd place my warm toes on the cold linoleum floor and run into the living room to cuddle by the fire, where I'd stay until breakfast smells would draw me into the kitchen.
Grandma’s kitchen wasn't a fancy affair. Small by any standard, the long homemade table and bench took up the most of it. Sliding down the wooden bench, I had to be careful of splinters. Although pretty-much worn smooth by the sliding of so many fannies over the years, including my mom’s when she was small, it still could on occasion put a splinter in a very uncomfortable spot.
As Grandma sat the food on the table, steam from the sausage and grits would rise and condense on the low tin roof that showed overhead. This same steam would fog up her glasses to where she couldn't see. There was usually sausage or bacon, so hot it sizzled on the plate, eggs, grits and biscuits, Grandma’s homemade biscuits. Then there was always coffee; sweet, milky coffee for us kids, but Grandpa’s coffee was always strong, black, and hot. “Like I like my women,” he'd tease Grandma, cause he liked it really hot, so hot he'd have to pour a little in his saucer and twirl it around to cool. Then he'd sip it, usually making a slurping sound, which would make Grandma fuss.
There were certain things that you didn't do at Grandma’s table, such as slurping. She had a list of these and tiny as she was, she was always big enough to enforce them. You didn't smack, slurp or make strange noises. You didn't sing, and one other thing, you never... ever told your dreams at the table before breakfast.
After fussing at Grandpa about the slurping, she'd usually turn away to get something else to sit on the table and he'd wink at us, while making another slurp as he'd reach over to give her a little pinch on the behind. Giggles would spread down the table as the egg spatula came around raised high.
Once Grandma would get all the food on the table, she'd reach down and pull her apron up to dry her hands, and using the same apron, she'd take off her glasses and wipe away the steam. Her next words were always, “OK, Henry, Let’s have the blessin’.”
Heads all bowed, Grandpa would take off his old ragged hat, and sitting there in faded overhauls, he'd thank the Lord for our blessings. As a child, I remember thinking, boy, we sure do have a lot of them, my stomach growling with each one named.
Outside the kitchen window, Grandma’s wash would often be flapping on the line, being softened by the morning dew, and on warm days the back door would be open and the sweet smell of gardenias would come in to mix with the sausage and eggs.
I remember sometimes during the blessing, peeping from under bowed head to watch a crow sitting on the old pump. But then, I'd look up to see Grandma frowning at me and eyes would close again. I don't recall ever wondering why Grandma’s eyes were open.
Sometimes, I'd try to listen to what Grandpa was saying, but he always said the blessing so fast that I couldn't quite make it out, except that we were grateful for all this food and prayed God would fill the tables of those that had none. Finally there'd be an Amen, followed by sighs and forks clanging as we all dug in.
Now, times have changed and like Grandma and Grandpa, the old house is gone. But even in this fast-paced day of Hardees, Burger King and McDonalds, occasionally as I pull away from the drive-in window, the scent of sausage and coffee brings back old memories. Another time, another pace of life. The only thing missing is the sweet smell of gardenias...
By: Sharon L. Romine, Copywrited, February 1990
Published U.S. Legacies May 2003
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