Kinda like tasting a ghost - a Thanksgiving Eulogy

[Guest guest]

My grandmother has been with me the last two days. I’ve worked quite a bit,

but drama has been low and I’m no longer required to plant my butt in a

certain chair eight hours a day. So of course, I’m in my kitchen as much as

possible.

Thanksgiving isn’t a big deal to me. Those of us who were orphaned by a

parent’s mental illness take our celebrations where we can find them. But,

when I was a kid, Thanksgiving meant something to me. It meant

grandmother. Every year until my mid-twenties I spent most of the week in

my grandmother’s kitchen.

Kitchens are my safe place. I shoe everyone away. And then I work. It’s the

only part of life where I feel totally in control and utterly competent.

Yesterday, when I made two cream pies from scratch, stirring and stirring

and stirring corn starch, milk and sugar until it thickened, my grandmother

was standing right next to me. The pie turned out perfectly. It tastes like

memories. It tastes like the best part of my past.

I whipped cream yesterday, something health nuts like me rarely do. Just

like riding a bike, the muscle memory was built in childhood. Every time I

whipped for my grandma she would say, “don’t whip it too much or you will

make butter.” I guess that’s the risk we cream whippers take.

My grandmother taught me to waltz in her kitchen while she sang about blue

eyes. Every time she sang that song, I would tell her my eyes were green.

Everyone in the family had green eyes, even her. Her eyes were water color,

while mine are bright with yellow glints.

My lessons were a result of selfishness. My mother wanted me to be able to

make pie for her on demand. I loved the lessons, my grandmother did too.

And I can cook like a mother fucker now. It’s a dying art. My grandma died.

But the art lives on.

I have one gigantic fear. Unlike most Americans, I am not afraid of

spiders, death or public speaking. I am terrified I will die without

teaching a child to waltz, sing and make cream pies in a too-warm kitchen.

[Guest guest]

Thank you for sharing this - very sweet the way you channelled the spirit of

your grandmother in your baking and cooking. How wonderful that you had

somebody you could go to and where you found a safe place.

>

> My grandmother has been with me the last two days. I've worked quite a bit,

> but drama has been low and I'm no longer required to plant my butt in a

> certain chair eight hours a day. So of course, I'm in my kitchen as much as

> possible.

>

>

> Thanksgiving isn't a big deal to me. Those of us who were orphaned by a

> parent's mental illness take our celebrations where we can find them. But,

> when I was a kid, Thanksgiving meant something to me. It meant

> grandmother. Every year until my mid-twenties I spent most of the week in

> my grandmother's kitchen.

>

>

> Kitchens are my safe place. I shoe everyone away. And then I work. It's the

> only part of life where I feel totally in control and utterly competent.

>

>

> Yesterday, when I made two cream pies from scratch, stirring and stirring

> and stirring corn starch, milk and sugar until it thickened, my grandmother

> was standing right next to me. The pie turned out perfectly. It tastes like

> memories. It tastes like the best part of my past.

>

>

> I whipped cream yesterday, something health nuts like me rarely do. Just

> like riding a bike, the muscle memory was built in childhood. Every time I

> whipped for my grandma she would say, " don't whip it too much or you will

> make butter. " I guess that's the risk we cream whippers take.

>

>

> My grandmother taught me to waltz in her kitchen while she sang about blue

> eyes. Every time she sang that song, I would tell her my eyes were green.

> Everyone in the family had green eyes, even her. Her eyes were water color,

> while mine are bright with yellow glints.

>

>

> My lessons were a result of selfishness. My mother wanted me to be able to

> make pie for her on demand. I loved the lessons, my grandmother did too.

> And I can cook like a mother fucker now. It's a dying art. My grandma died.

> But the art lives on.

>

>

> I have one gigantic fear. Unlike most Americans, I am not afraid of

> spiders, death or public speaking. I am terrified I will die without

> teaching a child to waltz, sing and make cream pies in a too-warm kitchen.

>

>

>

[Guest guest]

What great memories! Cooking is a wonderful gift to yourself and to others. How

special your sweet grandmother shared this special gift with you! She is always

with you

[Guest guest]

happy thanksgiving to all who are dealing, here's hoping for a drama free

day(but realizing it just isn't going to happen)

________________________________

To: WTOAdultChildren1

Sent: Wednesday, November 23, 2011 1:49 PM

Subject: Re: Kinda like tasting a ghost - a Thanksgiving

Eulogy

Â

Thank you for sharing this - very sweet the way you channelled the spirit of

your grandmother in your baking and cooking. How wonderful that you had

somebody you could go to and where you found a safe place.

>

> My grandmother has been with me the last two days. I've worked quite a bit,

> but drama has been low and I'm no longer required to plant my butt in a

> certain chair eight hours a day. So of course, I'm in my kitchen as much as

> possible.

>

>

> Thanksgiving isn't a big deal to me. Those of us who were orphaned by a

> parent's mental illness take our celebrations where we can find them. But,

> when I was a kid, Thanksgiving meant something to me. It meant

> grandmother. Every year until my mid-twenties I spent most of the week in

> my grandmother's kitchen.

>

>

> Kitchens are my safe place. I shoe everyone away. And then I work. It's the

> only part of life where I feel totally in control and utterly competent.

>

>

> Yesterday, when I made two cream pies from scratch, stirring and stirring

> and stirring corn starch, milk and sugar until it thickened, my grandmother

> was standing right next to me. The pie turned out perfectly. It tastes like

> memories. It tastes like the best part of my past.

>

>

> I whipped cream yesterday, something health nuts like me rarely do. Just

> like riding a bike, the muscle memory was built in childhood. Every time I

> whipped for my grandma she would say, " don't whip it too much or you will

> make butter. " I guess that's the risk we cream whippers take.

>

>

> My grandmother taught me to waltz in her kitchen while she sang about blue

> eyes. Every time she sang that song, I would tell her my eyes were green.

> Everyone in the family had green eyes, even her. Her eyes were water color,

> while mine are bright with yellow glints.

>

>

> My lessons were a result of selfishness. My mother wanted me to be able to

> make pie for her on demand. I loved the lessons, my grandmother did too.

> And I can cook like a mother fucker now. It's a dying art. My grandma died.

> But the art lives on.

>

>

> I have one gigantic fear. Unlike most Americans, I am not afraid of

> spiders, death or public speaking. I am terrified I will die without

> teaching a child to waltz, sing and make cream pies in a too-warm kitchen.

>

>

>

[Guest guest]

What a wonderful share; both your grandmother sharing with you how to bake pies,

and you sharing your sweet memories of her with us here. I too am glad that you

have these memories of your kind, loving, and nurturing grandmother to warm your

heart at the holidays. I'm betting that before your life is over, you will have

found at least one little child to share your skills and warm heart with,

whether its your own child or a child you come to know in the course of your

life. Best wishes to you and yours.

-Annie

>

> My grandmother has been with me the last two days. I've worked quite a bit,

> but drama has been low and I'm no longer required to plant my butt in a

> certain chair eight hours a day. So of course, I'm in my kitchen as much as

> possible.

>

>

> Thanksgiving isn't a big deal to me. Those of us who were orphaned by a

> parent's mental illness take our celebrations where we can find them. But,

> when I was a kid, Thanksgiving meant something to me. It meant

> grandmother. Every year until my mid-twenties I spent most of the week in

> my grandmother's kitchen.

>

>

> Kitchens are my safe place. I shoe everyone away. And then I work. It's the

> only part of life where I feel totally in control and utterly competent.

>

>

> Yesterday, when I made two cream pies from scratch, stirring and stirring

> and stirring corn starch, milk and sugar until it thickened, my grandmother

> was standing right next to me. The pie turned out perfectly. It tastes like

> memories. It tastes like the best part of my past.

>

>

> I whipped cream yesterday, something health nuts like me rarely do. Just

> like riding a bike, the muscle memory was built in childhood. Every time I

> whipped for my grandma she would say, " don't whip it too much or you will

> make butter. " I guess that's the risk we cream whippers take.

>

>

> My grandmother taught me to waltz in her kitchen while she sang about blue

> eyes. Every time she sang that song, I would tell her my eyes were green.

> Everyone in the family had green eyes, even her. Her eyes were water color,

> while mine are bright with yellow glints.

>

>

> My lessons were a result of selfishness. My mother wanted me to be able to

> make pie for her on demand. I loved the lessons, my grandmother did too.

> And I can cook like a mother fucker now. It's a dying art. My grandma died.

> But the art lives on.

>

>

> I have one gigantic fear. Unlike most Americans, I am not afraid of

> spiders, death or public speaking. I am terrified I will die without

> teaching a child to waltz, sing and make cream pies in a too-warm kitchen.

>

>

>

[Guest guest]

Oh thanks guys. My day is expected to be drama free. just me, my honey, a

few hours of overtime, and a friend stopping in. we are going to a movie. I

made 2 pies and a cheesecake already god help us we will " founder' as my

dad used to say - which is a horse getting very very sick from overeating.

I'll be thinking of you guys. My nada doesn't even have my phone number any

more.

> **

>

>

> happy thanksgiving to all who are dealing, here's hoping for a drama free

> day(but realizing it just isn't going to happen)

>

> ________________________________

>

> To: WTOAdultChildren1

> Sent: Wednesday, November 23, 2011 1:49 PM

> Subject: Re: Kinda like tasting a ghost - a

> Thanksgiving Eulogy

>

>

>

>

>

>

> Thank you for sharing this - very sweet the way you channelled the spirit

> of your grandmother in your baking and cooking. How wonderful that you had

> somebody you could go to and where you found a safe place.

>

>

> >

> > My grandmother has been with me the last two days. I've worked quite a

> bit,

> > but drama has been low and I'm no longer required to plant my butt in a

> > certain chair eight hours a day. So of course, I'm in my kitchen as much

> as

> > possible.

> >

> >

> > Thanksgiving isn't a big deal to me. Those of us who were orphaned by a

> > parent's mental illness take our celebrations where we can find them.

> But,

> > when I was a kid, Thanksgiving meant something to me. It meant

> > grandmother. Every year until my mid-twenties I spent most of the week in

> > my grandmother's kitchen.

> >

> >

> > Kitchens are my safe place. I shoe everyone away. And then I work. It's

> the

> > only part of life where I feel totally in control and utterly competent.

> >

> >

> > Yesterday, when I made two cream pies from scratch, stirring and stirring

> > and stirring corn starch, milk and sugar until it thickened, my

> grandmother

> > was standing right next to me. The pie turned out perfectly. It tastes

> like

> > memories. It tastes like the best part of my past.

> >

> >

> > I whipped cream yesterday, something health nuts like me rarely do. Just

> > like riding a bike, the muscle memory was built in childhood. Every time

> I

> > whipped for my grandma she would say, " don't whip it too much or you will

> > make butter. " I guess that's the risk we cream whippers take.

> >

> >

> > My grandmother taught me to waltz in her kitchen while she sang about

> blue

> > eyes. Every time she sang that song, I would tell her my eyes were green.

> > Everyone in the family had green eyes, even her. Her eyes were water

> color,

> > while mine are bright with yellow glints.

> >

> >

> > My lessons were a result of selfishness. My mother wanted me to be able

> to

> > make pie for her on demand. I loved the lessons, my grandmother did too.

> > And I can cook like a mother fucker now. It's a dying art. My grandma

> died.

> > But the art lives on.

> >

> >

> > I have one gigantic fear. Unlike most Americans, I am not afraid of

> > spiders, death or public speaking. I am terrified I will die without

> > teaching a child to waltz, sing and make cream pies in a too-warm

> kitchen.

> >

> >

> >

[Guest guest]

Thank goodness for grandmothers. I hope someday have children dancing with you

in the kitchen!

>

> My grandmother has been with me the last two days. I've worked quite a bit,

> but drama has been low and I'm no longer required to plant my butt in a

> certain chair eight hours a day. So of course, I'm in my kitchen as much as

> possible.

>

>

> Thanksgiving isn't a big deal to me. Those of us who were orphaned by a

> parent's mental illness take our celebrations where we can find them. But,

> when I was a kid, Thanksgiving meant something to me. It meant

> grandmother. Every year until my mid-twenties I spent most of the week in

> my grandmother's kitchen.

>

>

> Kitchens are my safe place. I shoe everyone away. And then I work. It's the

> only part of life where I feel totally in control and utterly competent.

>

>

> Yesterday, when I made two cream pies from scratch, stirring and stirring

> and stirring corn starch, milk and sugar until it thickened, my grandmother

> was standing right next to me. The pie turned out perfectly. It tastes like

> memories. It tastes like the best part of my past.

>

>

> I whipped cream yesterday, something health nuts like me rarely do. Just

> like riding a bike, the muscle memory was built in childhood. Every time I

> whipped for my grandma she would say, " don't whip it too much or you will

> make butter. " I guess that's the risk we cream whippers take.

>

>

> My grandmother taught me to waltz in her kitchen while she sang about blue

> eyes. Every time she sang that song, I would tell her my eyes were green.

> Everyone in the family had green eyes, even her. Her eyes were water color,

> while mine are bright with yellow glints.

>

>

> My lessons were a result of selfishness. My mother wanted me to be able to

> make pie for her on demand. I loved the lessons, my grandmother did too.

> And I can cook like a mother fucker now. It's a dying art. My grandma died.

> But the art lives on.

>

>

> I have one gigantic fear. Unlike most Americans, I am not afraid of

> spiders, death or public speaking. I am terrified I will die without

> teaching a child to waltz, sing and make cream pies in a too-warm kitchen.

>

>

>

[Guest guest]

I'm down for it!

> **

>

>

> Thank goodness for grandmothers. I hope someday have children dancing with

> you in the kitchen!

>

>

>

> >

> > My grandmother has been with me the last two days. I've worked quite a

> bit,

> > but drama has been low and I'm no longer required to plant my butt in a

> > certain chair eight hours a day. So of course, I'm in my kitchen as much

> as

> > possible.

> >

> >

> > Thanksgiving isn't a big deal to me. Those of us who were orphaned by a

> > parent's mental illness take our celebrations where we can find them.

> But,

> > when I was a kid, Thanksgiving meant something to me. It meant

> > grandmother. Every year until my mid-twenties I spent most of the week in

> > my grandmother's kitchen.

> >

> >

> > Kitchens are my safe place. I shoe everyone away. And then I work. It's

> the

> > only part of life where I feel totally in control and utterly competent.

> >

> >

> > Yesterday, when I made two cream pies from scratch, stirring and stirring

> > and stirring corn starch, milk and sugar until it thickened, my

> grandmother

> > was standing right next to me. The pie turned out perfectly. It tastes

> like

> > memories. It tastes like the best part of my past.

> >

> >

> > I whipped cream yesterday, something health nuts like me rarely do. Just

> > like riding a bike, the muscle memory was built in childhood. Every time

> I

> > whipped for my grandma she would say, " don't whip it too much or you will

> > make butter. " I guess that's the risk we cream whippers take.

> >

> >

> > My grandmother taught me to waltz in her kitchen while she sang about

> blue

> > eyes. Every time she sang that song, I would tell her my eyes were green.

> > Everyone in the family had green eyes, even her. Her eyes were water

> color,

> > while mine are bright with yellow glints.

> >

> >

> > My lessons were a result of selfishness. My mother wanted me to be able

> to

> > make pie for her on demand. I loved the lessons, my grandmother did too.

> > And I can cook like a mother fucker now. It's a dying art. My grandma

> died.

> > But the art lives on.

> >

> >

> > I have one gigantic fear. Unlike most Americans, I am not afraid of

> > spiders, death or public speaking. I am terrified I will die without

> > teaching a child to waltz, sing and make cream pies in a too-warm

> kitchen.

> >

> >

> >

[Guest guest]

WHAT a beautiful memory. How wonderful that you did not let your nadas selfish

motives ruin the lessons you learned at your grandmothers elbow. This made me

smile today. Thank you.

>

> My grandmother has been with me the last two days. I've worked quite a bit,

> but drama has been low and I'm no longer required to plant my butt in a

> certain chair eight hours a day. So of course, I'm in my kitchen as much as

> possible.

>

>

> Thanksgiving isn't a big deal to me. Those of us who were orphaned by a

> parent's mental illness take our celebrations where we can find them. But,

> when I was a kid, Thanksgiving meant something to me. It meant

> grandmother. Every year until my mid-twenties I spent most of the week in

> my grandmother's kitchen.

>

>

> Kitchens are my safe place. I shoe everyone away. And then I work. It's the

> only part of life where I feel totally in control and utterly competent.

>

>

> Yesterday, when I made two cream pies from scratch, stirring and stirring

> and stirring corn starch, milk and sugar until it thickened, my grandmother

> was standing right next to me. The pie turned out perfectly. It tastes like

> memories. It tastes like the best part of my past.

>

>

> I whipped cream yesterday, something health nuts like me rarely do. Just

> like riding a bike, the muscle memory was built in childhood. Every time I

> whipped for my grandma she would say, " don't whip it too much or you will

> make butter. " I guess that's the risk we cream whippers take.

>

>

> My grandmother taught me to waltz in her kitchen while she sang about blue

> eyes. Every time she sang that song, I would tell her my eyes were green.

> Everyone in the family had green eyes, even her. Her eyes were water color,

> while mine are bright with yellow glints.

>

>

> My lessons were a result of selfishness. My mother wanted me to be able to

> make pie for her on demand. I loved the lessons, my grandmother did too.

> And I can cook like a mother fucker now. It's a dying art. My grandma died.

> But the art lives on.

>

>

> I have one gigantic fear. Unlike most Americans, I am not afraid of

> spiders, death or public speaking. I am terrified I will die without

> teaching a child to waltz, sing and make cream pies in a too-warm kitchen.

>

>

>

[Guest guest]

What an amazing post!

Grab a kid, and boogie girl!!!!!

Sunspot

> **

>

>

> WHAT a beautiful memory. How wonderful that you did not let your nadas

> selfish motives ruin the lessons you learned at your grandmothers elbow.

> This made me smile today. Thank you.

>

>

>

> >

> > My grandmother has been with me the last two days. I've worked quite a

> bit,

> > but drama has been low and I'm no longer required to plant my butt in a

> > certain chair eight hours a day. So of course, I'm in my kitchen as much

> as

> > possible.

> >

> >

> > Thanksgiving isn't a big deal to me. Those of us who were orphaned by a

> > parent's mental illness take our celebrations where we can find them.

> But,

> > when I was a kid, Thanksgiving meant something to me. It meant

> > grandmother. Every year until my mid-twenties I spent most of the week in

> > my grandmother's kitchen.

> >

> >

> > Kitchens are my safe place. I shoe everyone away. And then I work. It's

> the

> > only part of life where I feel totally in control and utterly competent.

> >

> >

> > Yesterday, when I made two cream pies from scratch, stirring and stirring

> > and stirring corn starch, milk and sugar until it thickened, my

> grandmother

> > was standing right next to me. The pie turned out perfectly. It tastes

> like

> > memories. It tastes like the best part of my past.

> >

> >

> > I whipped cream yesterday, something health nuts like me rarely do. Just

> > like riding a bike, the muscle memory was built in childhood. Every time

> I

> > whipped for my grandma she would say, " don't whip it too much or you will

> > make butter. " I guess that's the risk we cream whippers take.

> >

> >

> > My grandmother taught me to waltz in her kitchen while she sang about

> blue

> > eyes. Every time she sang that song, I would tell her my eyes were green.

> > Everyone in the family had green eyes, even her. Her eyes were water

> color,

> > while mine are bright with yellow glints.

> >

> >

> > My lessons were a result of selfishness. My mother wanted me to be able

> to

> > make pie for her on demand. I loved the lessons, my grandmother did too.

> > And I can cook like a mother fucker now. It's a dying art. My grandma

> died.

> > But the art lives on.

> >

> >

> > I have one gigantic fear. Unlike most Americans, I am not afraid of

> > spiders, death or public speaking. I am terrified I will die without

> > teaching a child to waltz, sing and make cream pies in a too-warm

> kitchen.

> >

> >

> >