The women in my family are notoriously good cooks. Both my grandmothers, my mom, my aunts, my cousins. I have big shoes to fill. I love to cook. I love good food (a little too much). I love the accolades that come my way when cooking something good for my family and friends. I love the subtle nurture that is inevitably tied to filling the bellies of the ones you love. It's a simple pleasure.
This summer I got to cook pies with my Grandma Johnson on the farm.
I love being on the farm.
It's warm and old and a little quirky.
Everyone knows Grandma Johnson (Grandma 'Nene to her grandchildren) makes the best pies. It was really nice to learn from her, but it was even nicer just to spend time with her.
I got to hear her tell stories about her childhood. She told me about the early years when she and my grandpa were married. She went with him while he served in the military. She stood by him through his dreams of owning a farm.
Nearly 6 decades, 5 children, 10 grandchildren, and 11 (and counting) great-grandchildren later, she is still standing by him.
We talked while we cooked. We learned about each others lives while we cooked. It was a beautiful thing. The pie was beautiful, too.
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