When I was a kid I used to spend most of my Sunday’s at my grandmothers. I used to watch her prepare meals for her family. My grandparents had eleven children, and even though they were all grown, each and every one of Gram and Grap’s children (and their children) used to come to my grandparent’s for supper.
Gram explained the basics of cooking, and although I wasn’t particularly interested at the time, I like to believe that some of her knowledge must have sunk in; I love cooking these days.
From the blood puddings she made when my grandfather slaughtered a cow, to the meat pies, salt beef, and baked chicken meals she prepared, she explained the entire process to me. She did the same for my dad, and he is perhaps the best cook ever.
She took my little hands and put them on the fresh bread dough she made, and the two of us kneaded the dough into the tastiest bread I ever ate. Her ‘special ingredient’, as she used to say, was Love.
Those days are long gone, so is my grandmother, but her ingredient of love still lives whenever I prepare a meal for my family.