When I was a young girl, Christmas time was a magical time. It’s always a bit more magical when you’re children than when you are an adult – or at least you don’t have to work as hard at finding the magic. But perhaps one of the most special times of Christmas was going to Grandma Walker’s house. What else would you expect of the epitome of grandmotherhood than the perfect place to have Christmas. Grandma’s house wasn’t big, but seemed to have an endless supply of nooks and crannies. And every one of them held some sort of treasure. Perhaps it was the little shelf in the kitchen that held the small iron stove and cookery that would keep me entertained for hours. Maybe it was Grandaddy’s closet that smelled like cologne, hay, and cigars and the hidden ladder to the attic that was strictly forbidden to one and all. There was the little room, just off the kitchen, where games and old toys could be found in the closet, and old clothes and knickknacks were stored in the dresser that no one had used in years. I think that I learned to snoop from visiting with my grandmother, because she just had so much stuff tucked away. Almost every item had some story – whether it was a yard sale item from someone who she had known since she was young, or perhaps it was something that had belonged to her mother, or my dad. And everything, but everything, was saved because it might have some purpose later. I think I also inherited that collecting gene from her as well – it seems that throwing anything away is really more sin than a matter of practicality.
One thing that I most remember about Grandma’s at Christmas time is the food. When I was younger, Grandma did most of the cooking. At least, I don’t ever remember arriving with dishes in hand, only gifts. The small table would be spread with mashed potatoes, chicken and stuffing, something we call porkstuff (I don’t really know what it is except that pork was involved somehow). There might have been beans of some type; for sure there were deviled eggs. But the good stuff was always kept in the sewing room or the back bedroom.
My grandmother’s house doesn’t have central heat and air. She had a wall heater in the kitchen and the bathroom and a space heater in the living room. So, in the winter months the other rooms in the house were always cold. Not quite see your breath cold, but really chilly. And after we walked in and stored our presents under the three, I would begin to work my way through these rooms looking for Grandma’s Christmas candy. In the large oblong Tupperware dish she would have chocolate covered peanut butter balls. And it was so easy to snag one or two without being seen or even making a dent in the final amount. Other dishes contained a myriad of confections. She would usually make divinity – with and without nuts – but it always tasted like stale marshmallows to me so those were safe. There would always be something peanutbuttery (cornflake candy, or perhaps candy made from crunchy lo mein noodles), sometimes peanut butter brittle. You could find fried apple pies. And if it was a really good year, there would be container after container of GOBS. Gobs were my grandmother’s home meade version of cupcakes. They were round chocolate cake that had been split and filled with homemade creamed icing. They were light and fluffy and you could eat about 12 without really feeling like you’d eaten anything at all. Wonderfuly gooey things that to this day make my entire family salivate.
And if you weren’t into home made confections, my grandma and granddaddy also had other sweet treats about. My granddaddy had a corner and a chair in the living room. It was his spot and only for rent when he was at work or out on the farm somewhere. My grandmother had made some little pockets to hang on the side of the chair and that’s where granddaddy kept his special treats. Spillover treats found their way to a variety of jars and dishes on his little side table. My granddaddy had simple tastes when it came to candy. He loved the keebler chocolate wafers and would keep a package of them beside his chair at all times. There would often be salted peanuts. He liked to put some in his Dr. Pepper – which I never really understood and thought was a little gross, but to each his own. He would have circus peanuts, chocolate covered coconut drops (which was not the name he gave them, he called them nigger-toes which is not at all politically correct or appropriate but the name that first pops into my head when I see them). And on the coffee table, or perhaps the end table, there would be a dish. No leaded crystal, but a fancy beveled glass my grandmother would keep some ribbon candy. This candy would invariably have melted together sometime in the past and become more one giant clump than individual pieces of candy. And the candy was always, but always, a last resort choice. If nothing better could be found in the house, the ribbon candy would sort of satisfy the need for sweets cravings that seemed to roar to life as soon as I stepped foot into my grandmother’s house. Grandma always kept a little something made up, and almost always had something on the stove. Her house was the house that everyone came to for every holiday. Her house was the house where everyone came for breakfast, lunch and dinner – she was always ready and happy to feed who ever came knocking.
My grandma doesn’t keep that dish out in the living room anymore. She usually keeps something sweet on the kitchen table, though that dish is now brown and pretty large. And like most things the vivid richness of the treats have faded and dulled. I know that logically it’s because she no longer has the home where everyone pops in. But the memory is still there and welcomes me when I walk in the door. The feel of her house is still there and clings to me, tugs at my inner child and reminds me that this house and this woman created magic for me, my brother and sister. And she is creating some of those memories for my children – for them she’s the cinnamon toast woman. Though she often apologizes that she can’t do like she used to, she will happily make him an entire loaf of cinnamon toast when we come down. So now, my children also have that come to graze mentality that hits everyone at Grandma Walker’s house. It’s not the same amount of magic that I was able to feel, but it’s something. More importantly, it’s enough. It’s enough that my children are able to partake in my grandma’s ability to cook love into every dish.
