One of my favorite parts of childhood was spending time out on the farm with Grandma. Playing on the hay bales, exploring old buildings, constucting forts out of branches and found materials and of course the food.
It always amazed me at how early she would get up to make cinnamon rolls in the morning. That sweet smell mixing with that joy filled rendition of "Rise, and shine and give God the glory!" filtered through sheets pulled over my head to keep out the wake up call and the morning light. It was summer, I should not be awakened from my slumber. But she persisted and I eventually pulled myself together to make it downstairs for breakfast.
Homemade cinnamon rolls, Alphabets cereal with a glass of grape juice. Just the ticket to get me through a hard day of building forts and swimming at the community pool.
As I got older, I became curious about what it took to make those cinnamon rolls and apple pies that she was so famous for. Part of me just wanted to be able to enjoy those things on my own time, but part of me wants to have that as a heritage. Everytime I make a pie I think of grandma and try to get in touch with her on the phone. It's a way of reminding me to keep in touch, to keep those happy memories alive. To keep her with me. Knowing the effort it takes to prepares these things also reminds me of how much she cares for us. That is her love language. Those hours spent in the kitchen loving us through her food. Her time. Her songs.
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