Grammy Hinkley makes the best oatmeal. It’s even better than Mother’s cream of wheat. In the summer of 1971, at the age of ten, I’m sitting at her round kitchen table with its matching oak chairs, savouring the oatmeal’s sweetness. In Denver, Colorado, the sun is shining, and it streams in through a nearby window, which is open, and I can hear birds singing. Besides the table and chairs, there are countertops, a sink, a stove, an oven, and a refrigerator. Appliances sit on the countertops, but with my limited vision, I can’t make them out. The floor is a brown-checkered linoleum.
Grammy and Granddad are sitting at the table with me. We eat and talk. When all of us have finished, Grammy clears away the dirty dishes and gets out the cribbage set. I watch, fascinated, as she and Granddad perform their morning ritual.
What do you remember about your grandmother’s kitchen? Was there a particular food your grandmother prepared that you liked the best? What other activities did you and your grandmother do in the kitchen?
My Books
My Ideal Partner: How I Met, Married, and Cared for the Man I Loved Despite Debilitating Odds
That’s Life: New and Selected Poems
How to Build a better Mousetrap: Recollections and Reflections of a Family Caregiver
We Shall Overcome
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