Narrative Essay

As I walk into my grandma’s house, the familiar smells lead me to the kitchen. All of these smells play with my senses, garlic, fresh baked bread, and pasta sauce. I cannot do anything but take a huge breath through my nose and take it all in and smile. There I find her hovered over a bowl mixing meatballs with her bare hands, rings carefully placed to the side. There she is, Norma, my mom’s mother, my grandma. She stands five foot, short hair, and a heavy New York accent, the epitome of an Italian grandmother. As she looks up from the bowl and notices me she stands there smiling, beauty radiating from her eyes. In her New York accent she calls out, “Oh, hi, I’m so happy you came, are you hungry?” I know whenever family gets together there will be food and laughter. “Yes, Grandma, I am starving.” Her eyes light up and as she raises her eyebrows she says, “Great, we’re having lasagna, salad, and bread. I made cheesecake for dessert.” She gives me one more look and returns to her work. As I stand watching her meticulously work the meatballs into shape, I realize that food is much more than the essence of survival, it is family tradition and a haven for us to let loose and enjoy time together.
Cooking and eating has always been a part of my family. I cannot remember a time when we have not made a big deal out of food. For holidays, gatherings, Friday nights, it did not matter. There had to be no reason to celebrate. We celebrated life, each other, and food. We loved every aspect of it. Preparing it was a bonding time between relatives, eating it was an extension of our quality time, and after we were done we sat around and laughed and talked, often about our next meal. It was a comfort for us, it was a constant, and it was our way.
My mother, Janet, not standing much taller than my Grandma, at five foot one, inspired my love for cooking many years ago. I knew she meant business every evening as she walked in the kitchen, tied that old, white apron around her waist and gathered her ingredients. I would watch her from the living room or from the doorway to the kitchen. She concentrated on each thing she did, sometimes speaking aloud, to herself, each step as she went. I never really knew if she was talking about the food, life, or plans. All I knew is that it was her escape and I wanted in to her utopia. Attentiveness surrounded her as she blew the brown tendrils out of her face because her hands were covered in dough. Sometimes I would see her put the back of her messy hand to her forehead and let out a sigh because she made a small mistake. You would never know it though. It was an art form streaming from her loving hands. The food she produced, the smells she created, the memories etched into my heart. Watching her bake bread, or make lasagna, homemade taco shells, green chili burritos, goulash, she was invincible. I loved watching her cook and I loved eating her creations. All we had to do was look hungry and she was preparing or finding us a snack. I could see it brought joy to her to see us happy, even if it was through food.
Food can be so much more than simply eating to survive. It embodies family rituals and traditions. It takes on a new form when passed down through generations. It joins people together with purpose and meaning. No matter the trial in your life or the current family drama, when we share a meal it is all behind us for a moment. It comforts us to experience a more contented day and to stir up positive reminiscences. No matter what happens in life or with family, those memories of sitting around a table and enjoying a meal are ever-present.
Now that I am grown, my greatest passion is going into the kitchen and preparing a meal, but my greatest joy is watching others enjoy it. Eating with the ones I love seems to bring an indescribable happiness to my life. I now have three children that one day will understand the true passion my family has for food. Each time I place a meal in front of my children and they look up at me and say that I make the best dinner or ask for a second helping, my heart overflows with delight. Now as the smells of fresh baked bread flow through my home, I catch my daughter taking deep breaths through her nostrils, taking in each tantalizing scent, breathing in each memory.
Many things are passed down through families sometimes they are heirlooms or talents. Other times they are inheritances or antiques. The best things to be passed down are memories and passions. Even though they are passed down, does not mean they cannot be shared still. When my mom and I get together, you better believe there is cooking going on. Not only are we cooking for each other now, we are cooking together, learning her old tricks and my new ones. With each generation new things will be added but the premise will be the same. New gadgets will be invented but the love of the work will be the same. Recipes altered and improved, but the conclusion is the same. That conclusion is life, joy, laughter, family, and of course food.