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July 30, 2019


Karen in Ohio

Wonderful stories and memories. Thank you all for sharing your grannies and grannies-in-law.

Cooking is love, isn't it? Even the so-so kind requires care and attention, planning, and choosing.

My grandfather on my mother's side was the cake maker, and I still make as close a version as I can get to his amazing coffee buttercream frosting. Always wrapped around a delectably tender spice cake, and served with Grandma's always ready coffee. Grandpa used a heart-shaped pan, and he claimed the "humps" at the top and the bottom. Those bit have the most icing, of course.


I really want some cake right now


Tell me about it, Alexia. I watched an epsiode of The GBBO last night, eating . . . watermelon.

Aimee Hix

I can almost smell the kerosene again.

Cathy M

Thanks for your memories (cue Bob Hope). That comment about "visiting" takes me back to my childhood visits with my parents to great aunts and others. I was lucky to live next to my paternal grandparents and about a 30 minute drive from by maternal grandparents.

I remember my paternal grandmother made homemade sauerkraut and pickles in a brown crock and the best bread in special little pans that made small triangular shaped loaves. My favorite meal was my mother's homemade vegetable beef soup with my grandma's bread. Yum.

The special cake I remember from my grandmother was spice cake with seafoam or seven minute icing. Later in life, if she served a cake that you complimented, she always divulged if it was from a "box mix" as if she was slacking off and not starting from scratch.

Thanks for your post today. It brought back happy memories and made me smile.


Neither of my grandmothers was a good cook, but they both had one thing they made very well indeed. That made eating with them more bearable, since you always had hope today would be a day they cooked the treasured item -at least until you sat down at the table.

Susan Shea

I have no stories about good or bad grandmother cooks but I'm loving all of yours.

Laurie Sheehan

A few times a month I'd walk in the front door after school only to find the back of every wooden dining chair covered in long strands of fresh pasta. Tagliatelle (which basically means cut pasta - tagliare being the verb "to cut." Pretty original we Italians). At the time I would groan, especially if I had a friend with me, and I'd say something along the lines of "Sheesh, Granny! Why can't we just get pasta in a bag like normal people?" My derision didn't stop me from slurping up a prodigious serving smothered in (also homemade) ragu. I look back on that now with the regret of an adult who can finally understand the lost opportunities of youth. I make pasta now, too, but always with a feeling of slight wistfulness for not having shared the experience with my Gran.

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