Family secrets.

So, there's this thing.  Called "Grandma jelly."

My entire childhood can be summed up in this phrase.  Grandma jelly.

In the backyard of my Grandma's house, there grows a gigantic fig tree. And every summer, the fig tree grows and grows, until it's so heavy with figs that we don't have to worry about fighting the squirrels, birds and bugs for the figs because we already have buckets and buckets of them.  It is from this tree that Grandma Jelly begins.

I don't know how my Grandma decided to make Grandma jelly, but I'm glad she did.  It's a mixture of fresh figs, mashed and mashed and mashed (we did it by hand, and she still does, because food processors are only good for certain things) and mixed with sugar and strawberry gelatin, cooked until perfect, then canned.  The result is this figgy-berry-chunky-seedy-spreadable-wonderful-concoction that was christened "Grandma jelly."

The tree hasn't been producing as much as it has in the past, which means that Grandam Jelly production has slackened somewhat.  Combined with the fact that she just doesn't have the demand that she used to, with the grandchildren almost all grown up and gone away, the stock of Grandma jelly has dwindled.  But she still makes it, fresh batches that leave the house with a lingering sweet fruit smell for a week afterwards, from the end of June to middle of July when the figs are at their ripest.

I love Grandma jelly. There isn't a single thing on this earth that it isn't good on.  Waffles, ice cream, PB&J sandwiches, hell, I've even used it as a sweet glaze on steak and chicken before.  It's amazingly versatile. I don't know what she does, or how exactly she makes it, but it's seriously one of my favorite things in this entire world.

R. has never had Grandma jelly.  But I managed to get a small jar from Grandma to give to him (how to tell she really likes him, yeah?).  It may come to him opened with a few spoonfuls taken out, but it will make it.  And he will enjoy Grandma jelly for the first time. I'm considering whether or not he likes it being a deciding factor in whether or not I can spend the rest of my life with him (I'm kidding! ... Maybe.).

My favorite story to tell of the power of Grandma jelly is this:
I had a supervisor at a store I worked at one summer who I really liked, J.  She was a tough broad who had a sweet side when she wanted to show you, and I really enjoyed working with her. One day we were bored, the store was empty, so we started talking about our shared passion for cooking.  Being summer, I shared that I was excited for the first batch of Grandma jelly to make it's appearance, and J. begged me, begged me to get her a jar.  Grandma relented and gave me a small jar for her, only because J. had just found out that she was pregnant for the first time, and my Grandma is a sucker for babies and their pregnant mommas.  J. rejoiced when I brought her the jar, and then two days later, she was on me like a drug addict begging for more -- she had used up the whole jar, on everything she could think of.  Waffles, ice cream, pancakes, bologna sandwiches (Hey, she was pregnant!), and she wanted, no, needed more.

Are there any foods from your childhood that are family staples like Grandma jelly? What are they?  How are they unique?

-A

Tea and poetry.

One of my greatest loves in life has been constant and true, never failing: Tea.

It may be pandering to a stereotype of Southerners by saying that I love sweet tea more than any other beverage, but it's true.  At least when the tea is brewed, not made from syrup in a soda fountain. Good tea. Not bad tea.

Is there really a difference between good tea and bad tea?  Isn't all tea packed with the antioxidants and flavanoids that make it such a health benefit?  Well, possibly, and I'm not a scientist to make any kind of solid comment on that front, and I'm feeling too lazy to do any research on the subject at present (I will probably end up doing some, though, just because not knowing something is one of my greatest irritations in life).  But I know that there is a definite taste difference that leads to the conclusion that a glass of sweet tea is Good tea, or Bad tea.  Just ask the Brits. They'll tell you.

I started out my life drinking sweet tea and sweetened hot tea at my grandma's house (any surprise there, folks?).  The hot tea was mainly because I could sneak a few extra scoops of sugar into the mug, and then be left with the grainy melty sweet stickiness at the bottom of the cup when I had finished the tea.  Sweet iced tea has always been one of my favorite things about Grandma's house, though.  Even though I know that she doesn't do anything special, doesn't buy anything other than the cheapest brand of tea and use regular sugar, somehow it just tastes better.  Maybe because it's made with love? (*wink*)

As I got older, I began to experience new kinds of tea. Flavored black teas, herbal teas, and green tea.  As a singer, I developed "magic tea" which is a herbal tea mixed with mint, honey, and a little bit of lemon that just plain made a sore throat feel better, and saved my voice on occasion.  I like green tea when I'm drinking hot tea, mostly because I've managed to convince myself that it's better for me, and I do enjoy green tea with lemon iced.  There is nothing that holds more meaning of cold weather happiness to me than a big mug of chai tea, inhaling the cinnamon and clove scent, luxuriating in the complex flavors of a good chai. 

I'm trying to cut back the caffeine in the evenings, since I do have to get up at a regular time these days.  I drink a lot of water at work (it's seriously hot outside in Florida, y'all.  Seriously. And humid. Water is my best friend), and I like to have a good herbal tea at night just to break up the routine of water, and it's something other than soda to give it flavor.

And there is no other past time in my life I enjoy more than curling up with a book and a mug of tea, even in hot weather.  Since I got two new books from the library today, I think that's what I'll do. 

What are you favorite beverages? Do they hold any meaning to you?

-A

There's nowhere like home.

Julia Child held the policy that she would never apologize for the quality of any of the food she made, even if it was terrible.  My grandmother held much the same ideal.  Never did I ever heard her apologize for quality, only possible lack of quantity.

My grandma’s kitchen table has been a grounding center for my life as long as I can remember.  I have eaten innumerable meals, snacks, drunk hundreds if not thousands of cups of tea, at her table.  While the table itself has changed a few times over the years, it has always been the most prominent feature in her home, a gathering place for family and friends.  Her table acts as an anchor we all could hold onto in the storms of life.

No one uses the actual front door at my grandma’s house.  Everyone uses the kitchen door, a sliding glass door (or the screen door in favorable weather) that allows my grandparents a panoramic view of their potted-plant garden and bird feeders.  The door opens directly into the open kitchen, where my grandparents constantly sit at their wooden table.  From the table, my grandpa can watch the TV that he can’t hear without his headphones, and still keep an eye on the goings-on of the neighborhood through the windows.

My grandma sits in the same chair, and has as long as I can ever remember.  I have whole troves of memories of sitting across from her, learning lessons of life from her experience while her deft fingers worked a needle in her intricate cross stitches.  It’s rare to find her stitching anymore, as she has trouble she won’t admit to with her arthritis and eyesight.

But she is always sitting there, as if she knew I was coming, even if I was trying to surprise her.

From years of homework, to huge cookie decorating fests at Christmas, making batches of Grandma Jelly in the summer, to crying over heartbreaks and disappoints, my life always comes back to her itchen table.  On my worst days, when I feel completely sorry for myself,  I want nothing more than to be sitting across from my grandma at her table, nursing a mug of tea, as she tells me to get over it – “This too shall pass.  It’s not that bad, it could be worse.  You could be dying.”  Tough love, served with jelly and butter sandwiches, a mug of hot tea laced with enough sugar that it’s basically syrup, and a comforting pat on the hand to soften her words.

But she was always right.  The bad things passed, and life went on, eventually improving.  I dread the first time I have to miss a holiday dinner at her house, because I honestly don’t know how to celebrate Thanksgiving or Christmas without sitting at her table.  Here’s hoping that day is a long way off.

Sometimes where you eat the food of your life is more important than what you eat.
-A