A Connection in the Kitchen: Discovering My Grammy's Recipes a Decade Later

𝑀y Grammy is, was, and will always be one of the most important people in my life. With her auburn hair, strong cheekbones, and infectious personality, she instantly lit up any room she was in. She was the first person to hold me when I was born; I believe that we bonded at that moment. I felt like I could tell her anything and even if she didn’t respond with what I wanted to hear, I tried my best to listen. We talked on the phone as often as possible, usually as she was settling down on the couch after savouring one of her palatable meals.

She was always so modest, insisting that she did “nothing different” when cooking—but the proof is in the pudding, Gram.

During the 28 years that we knew each other, she showed me what it meant to be loved unconditionally. She showed me how to believe in myself, be confident, persevere, and stay healthy. Another thing she tried to show me how to do was cook. (Emphasis on tried.)

However, I resisted the latter lesson with every bit of strength I had. What did I need to learn to cook for? Take-out is so convenient. I don’t have time to cook. I’m a modern woman! Cooking would only slow down my fast-paced lifestyle and I’ve got looks, not cuisine, to serve. 

My Grammy excelled in the kitchen. She was a great cook. Superb, even. She could make something as simple as peanut butter toast or a hard-boiled egg taste like it came from a Michelin-starred restaurant. I don’t know how she did it. (Guess I should’ve paid more attention to her unsuccessful attempts to teach me.) Even through numerous hip surgeries and arthritic hands, her cooking never took the back burner.

Wholehearted meals, usually consisting of meat, potatoes, and one or two types of veggies, saturated in butter, salt, and pepper. That’s the type of food I associate with my Grammy. (After all, she was British.) She cooked in a way that begged you to go back for second—maybe third—helpings no matter how stuffed you were from the first heap you piled sky-high onto your plate. We all often joke that just being inside her home caused you to instantly gain ten pounds. 

It was inevitable. 

Although, while the rest of us ballooned after a particularly scrumptious Sunday night feast or impressively mouth-watering Christmas spread, she remained lithe, svelte, and enviably in-shape.

Preparing a healthy dose of greens.

Breaded pork chops with sautéed spinach, roasted rosemary potatoes, and a dollop of sour cream.

A decade ago, I moved out of my dad’s home and into my first apartment in downtown Victoria, British Columbia. As a house-warming gift, my Grammy gave me an envelope full of her favourite recipes. “You’ll have to learn to cook for yourself now,” she warned me. However, being barely 20 years old and more concerned with what club I was going dancing at on the weekend than preparing anything more than a can of soup, I took her recipes and tossed them to the back of my brand-new kitchen cupboard.

My budget and I preferred the simplicity—and effortlessness—of instant noodles and pre-cut stir fry veggies from the shop around the corner to the seemingly daunting complexities of her Shepherd’s pie, Swiss steak, or battered fish. 

When I moved to Sydney for university a couple of years later, the recipes came with me but the envelope remained closed. The same was true when I moved to Toronto—first to Parkdale, then to Little Italy, and finally to Forest Hill. These recipes had literally followed me around the world and back again and I had yet to give one a try. I convinced myself that I just didn't have the time. It was a sad excuse. Pathetic. But even my tragic justifications didn’t encourage me to open that envelope for more than a peek.  

On our many phone calls, my Grammy would often question me about what I’d made for dinner. “What are you eating out there?” she’d ask, a hint of worry in her voice. “Are you staying healthy? What about vitamins, nutrients? Are you eating right?” (Her father passed away from Type 2 Diabetes so healthy, balanced eating was always a major factor in her meal planning.) I would respond with a whole fridge full of half-truths. Things like how I just “preferred” salads or how I ate some “turkey spinach meatballs” that sounded easy enough to make myself but in reality were easiest bought from the independent city market down the street. 

In October 2019, my Grammy lost her life to cancer. It was abrupt in some ways and painstakingly long in others. She suffered enough agony, discomfort, and anxiety to last a lifetime and although completely devastated, we were all relieved that she was no longer tormented by that vicious disease. 

The envelope of recipes she gave me a decade ago.

Spaghetti with homemade meatballs and parmesan cheese.

I’m ashamed to admit that I never attempted to make even a single recipe from the overstuffed envelope she presented me with almost 10 years earlier. Yes, I cooked. But I didn’t cook her recipes. It wasn’t until the COVID-19 pandemic hit that I re-discovered that cherished envelope—now wrinkled, torn, and stained from its many relocations. Once the lockdown went into effect, I was almost immediately laid-off from my copywriting job. With a sudden influx of free time on my hands, there was one thing that I was determined to attempt: cooking. Well, that’s not entirely true. I was also determined to learn Spanish, finish writing my first novel, and practice yoga every day. But cooking took priority.

After all, there were three times a day that my stomach demanded a fresh, lovingly prepared meal. 

One afternoon, I poured myself a glass of smooth, red wine, sat down at the dining room table, and carefully scattered the dozens of well-worn recipes out in front of me. Seeing my Grammy’s handwriting and her collection of recipes brought tears to my eyes. (Hidden amongst the recipe cards I also found a couple of notes from my late father, which made me cry harder.) What would have seemed like too-tough-to-make recipes at one point in my life now felt like a palpable connection between my beloved Grammy and me. 

Buttermilk waffles with homemade blackberry syrup.

Steak + fried onions, potato wedges, parmesan zucchini, fresh tomatoes, and jalapeños.

Over the last year, I’ve begun making her recipes. I’ve broiled to perfection the creamiest macaroni and cheese, chopped up dozens of tomatoes for her bubbling spaghetti sauce, baked a batch or two of chocolate chunk cookies, and even made her signature stuffing for Thanksgiving—alongside two of her staple holiday casseroles; one with hashbrowns and cheese and one replete with broccoli and carrots. My stomach is content, my heart is full, and the sorrow I feel for losing her seems a touch more subdued when I have a fresh slice of rich, dense butter cake waiting for me after dinner.

Sometimes, I take photos of the meals I’ve made and send them to my sister, who also has her own collection of recipes. It helps us connect through these difficult times, especially when we aren’t able to break bread together in person. We reminisce on the nights that Grammy used to lovingly prepare these meals for us and how impossibly delectable they were with each and every bite.

To savour moments (pun intended) with family feels particularly important and special in today’s world. Even if I can’t be with my Grammy or loved ones right now, we can connect through food: artichoke nibblers, crab tartlets, caramel donuts, pot roast, zucchini loaf, crispy sesame chicken, shortbread. I could go on. 

As she would always say to me at the end of my first plate of food, “Why don’t you go back for more, Mellie?”

And I fully intend to.

—ᴍᴍᴍ