Warmth, Laughter, and Joy
In the beginning was the smell.
The smell of pies my grandmother baked.
These pies remind me of my childhood, rare trips to Russia, and one of my closest friends: my granny.
Polina. I was named after her, and I would say that I inherited a lot. Except for one thing.
I have never been able to bake such puffy pies as my grandmother.
I always thought the secret was in the dough, but every try I made failed.
She offered a spectrum of flavors: sweet pies with apples and plums, meat pies, and pies with grated egg and parsley. The latter, although the strangest combination, was the most delicious.
With those pies, grandma always gathered the family around the table, bringing warmth and homeliness. While we enjoyed the best pies one could find, we told stories and laughed a lot.
Sometimes she even hushed us, saying, “It's not Christian to laugh so much while eating!”
Then I was just a curious observer and a grateful connoisseur of the magic that granny created in the kitchen.
When I was five, I decided I was old enough to poke my nose into the mechanics of it.
It was Easter.
During the day, grown-ups, like buzzing bees, occupied the kitchen, baking Easter cakes and painting eggs. Unanimously, they excluded me from this.
My exile continued until midnight when everyone attending the festive service, left me and grandma at home.
I was falling asleep when I heard the sound of a pot placed on the stove. I slipped into the kitchen, where grandma was boiling eggs. At midnight, she decided that we needed more painted eggs.
I assure you, we have much more in common than just the name...
I sat down at the table and offered help. She smiled and allowed me to bring my excitement into the process. We painted eggs, creating funny patterns, until the rest of the family returned from church in the early morning.
As usual, my grandmother brought the warmest atmosphere into the kitchen, but that time I was part of it. And I liked it.
Our friendship evolved into something new; we became kitchen buddies.
I usually sat at the table, watching my grandmother, and sometimes helped with the cooking. Sometimes I would suggest trying new recipes.
Sometimes it would go wrong.
Once, I proposed to make healthy chocolate candies with cherries. First, we decided to melt the chocolate.
Genial. Except for one thing.
We melted it in the microwave... in a metal cup...
You can imagine what happened. If not, I recommend you never try this at home.
We almost broke the microwave and half-burned the cup itself...together with the chocolate.
To the fair question of my uncle, “What the hell were you thinking?” granny and I, exchanging guilty glances, pointed at the recipe.
Yes, our culinary tandem had its failures. Some were more tragic than others.
Once, my mom asked us to cook dinner for New Year's Eve. She always worked on December 31 and spent the entire evening in a crazy rush to get everything ready before midnight. That time, as I was in seventh grade and considered mature enough, she delegated this responsibility to me and granny. Unfortunately for her.
The New Year falls on the Great Lent, so we had to cook fish instead of meat.
We had two tasks: to marinate the trout and to make a “Herring under a coat” salad.
The main task was not to confuse the fish because the trout was raw, and the herring was already cooked for the salad.
But… looked raw…
We made salads, marinated fish, and served the festive table. Mom was very impressed when she returned home. That was until she reached the kitchen and saw marinated fish on the table, waiting to get into the oven. She turned to us in confusion, “Haven't you made the salad?”
We proudly told her we did.
Mom realizing it much earlier than us, asked with a “regretting-my-decision” face, “Then why is the herring here, marinated?”
Although we did not turn fully green with shame, that time, we almost stole the New Year.
However, we had our victories as well.
One of our masterpieces was pancakes.
Pancakes were popular with our family, and sometimes we would spend an entire weekend morning baking them together.
Usually, it began with grandma smiling at me and saying: “Let's make pancakes. I make the dough, you fry them.”
I cherish those mornings; our kitchen, full of smell and laughter, and granny's almost childlike delight.
She taught me this. How to gather people around the table, make them laugh, create a taste of warmth and joy, and fill any place with it.
But every spoonful of honey has its own tar.
In the spring of 2019, she suffered a stroke. She lost her speech, and one arm went partially numb. We tried our best to help her recover. I spent time with her doing special facial and body gymnastics and reading to her. Gradually everything became normal again.
Then I made a mistake.
It was the New Year of 2020.
Having more experience than in seventh grade, I decided to cook the whole dinner myself.
I started early in the morning, having a great mission ahead of me.
Later, my grandmother quietly entered the kitchen and sat down at the table. She wanted to help me and started cutting vegetables, though it was harder for her than before. I was nervous as I hovered over the pans and pots because I wanted everything to be perfect, to control all the processes.
At some point, I turned to her with a smile, trying to hide my nervousness, and invited her to rest in the living room. She looked at me with sadness and left. That gaze quickly faded into a haze of chugging pans and baking dishes.
A month and a half later, my grandmother had a second stroke.
Three days, and she was gone.
None of the literary metaphors are needed here. I felt guilty.
Guilty for what I haven't told her, for what I haven't done, and much worse, for what I have.
Guilty for that moment when I made her feel unwanted, forgetting the main lesson she taught me: the main thing about cooking and dining is joy, not perfection.
I was sitting in the dark living room when my mom and her friends returned from church.
They went into the kitchen, and shortly after, I heard the sound of a pot placed on the stove. I quietly walked over to the kitchen door, observing what was happening inside.
They were making noodles for memorial service soup. One made the dough, the other cut it, and the other prepared vegetables. While cooking, they told their memories of my grandmother and their experience of going through this stage of life.
There were only four of them, but they seemed to fill the kitchen with warmth and laughter.
It was back. Magic that brings people together and lights up a place.
Standing there and watching my mom getting comfort and smiling for the first time in days, I cried. And smiled too.
Polina. I was named after my grandmother, and although I am still learning to bake such delicious pies as she did, I have already discovered all her secret ingredients, and I will not omit them.
Warmth, Laughter, and Joy.