My mom, Dee, made this for her grandmother's Christmas Tree. That'd be Gramma Bunnie's (Helen Jaques) mother, Great-Gramma Emma Ellis (nee Peterson), who lived as long as I knew her, in her white house on the corner in Canton, SD. It was this little girl who sat, curled up, under the buffet when the drunk antics of Uncle Lydell disturbed the peace of our Sunday afternoon at Gramma Emma's. This little girl learned, too, that death brings a deep complexity of emotion turmoil, when Uncle Lydell's drunk antics were ended, once and for all, by an exploding hay bailer. Every single birthday, this little girl got a birthday card from her great-grandmother containing one taped-in quarter and one-to-several sticks of Wrigley's gum du jour. Every year, it was addressed to a different variation of Diana Lambert in her shaky, old-fashioned, granny hand. Coffee reminds me of her; her house radiated warmth and coffee (and busom, I gotta say it, the woman was like 75% busom to me).
Always the big enamel pot on the warming stove in the dining room. She'd dash to the kitchen to make a fresh batch when my dad arrived. If it was a baking day, she'd put aside some coffee to cool, to later mix with powdered sugar to frost a spice cake. A spice cake
not from a box. Nor a recipe, for that matter. And this little girl would be
invited to help. Not an imposition, a
guest. Sometimes, in the summer we'd sneak to the kitchen and she'd give me an ice cream cone from her giant freezer that had a room of it's own. Aaaahh it was this little girl who forever linked baking in a kitchen (and busoms) to the most profound gift of love possible. Her scents hearken thoughts of acceptance and attention. When I make Spice Cake, I think of them, that woman and that little girl, the magic of a simple cake... yeah, and the busoms too. Thanks Emma ♥
My mom, Dee, made this for her grandmother's Christmas Tree. That'd be Gramma Bunnie's (Helen Jaques) mother, Great-Gramma Emma Ellis (nee Peterson), who lived as long as I knew her, in her white house on the corner in Canton, SD. It was this little girl who sat, curled up, under the buffet when the drunk antics of Uncle Lydell disturbed the peace of our Sunday afternoon at Gramma Emma's. This little girl learned, too, that death brings a deep complexity of emotion turmoil, when Uncle Lydell's drunk antics were ended, once and for all, by an exploding hay bailer. Every single birthday, this little girl got a birthday card from her great-grandmother containing one taped-in quarter and one-to-several sticks of Wrigley's gum du jour. Every year, it was addressed to a different variation of Diana Lambert in her shaky, old-fashioned, granny hand. Coffee reminds me of her; her house radiated warmth and coffee (and busom, I gotta say it, the woman was like 75% busom to me).
Always the big enamel pot on the warming stove in the dining room. She'd dash to the kitchen to make a fresh batch when my dad arrived. If it was a baking day, she'd put aside some coffee to cool, to later mix with powdered sugar to frost a spice cake. A spice cake not from a box. Nor a recipe, for that matter. And this little girl would be invited to help. Not an imposition, a guest. Sometimes, in the summer we'd sneak to the kitchen and she'd give me an ice cream cone from her giant freezer that had a room of it's own. Aaaahh it was this little girl who forever linked baking in a kitchen (and busoms) to the most profound gift of love possible. Her scents hearken thoughts of acceptance and attention. When I make Spice Cake, I think of them, that woman and that little girl, the magic of a simple cake... yeah, and the busoms too. Thanks Emma ♥
1 comment:
for my and my grammie it's fresh-picked wild blueberries cooked down to a sauce on top of aunt jemima's pancakes in summer, and spearmint leaves candy in a dish on her coffee table on sundays after church in winter...and busoms!
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