What My Granny’s Kitchen Taught Me About Home
When I think about where my love of cooking began, I don’t think about a cookbook, a cooking class or even a particular recipe.
I think about my Granny’s kitchen.
I grew up in a tiny town in Ohio with about 200 people. My dad was the oldest of ten children, so “family dinner” meant something very different in our family.
Every Sunday, from the time I was born until I left for college, we went to my grandparents’ farm for lunch.
And Granny cooked.
Not just for a few of us. She cooked for what seemed like an army—her children, grandchildren and whoever else happened to be there.
And here’s the part that makes me laugh now: nobody brought a dish.
There was no family group text asking who was bringing the salad or assigning someone dessert.
Granny made it all.
On my blog La Vine Living. I may sometimes use affiliate links, which means a small commission is earned if you make a purchase via the link. The price will be the same whether you use the affiliate link or go directly to the vendor’s website using a non-affiliate link. You can find my full Disclosure Policy HERE
Sundays at the Farm
Sunday lunch might include fried chicken, homemade macaroni and cheese, green beans from the garden that she’d canned, corn that had been picked fresh or preserved for later, homemade yeast rolls and, of course, her white cornbread.
That cornbread was made in a cast-iron skillet almost every day.
Her kitchen wasn’t fancy. It was a working kitchen.
She had two stoves, a refrigerator and a chest freezer. There was a dented tin ladle by the sink that seemed to have been there forever. Dishes were washed by hand. There was a tub of lard in the kitchen and a slop bucket that certainly wouldn’t make the cut in today’s beautifully styled kitchens.
But that kitchen worked.
And it was always full.
Full of food. Full of people. Full of conversation.
Full of life.
My Favorite Job
One of my favorite things was helping Granny with the homemade rolls.
I’d wait for the dough to rise and then help roll it out. I can still remember working with that soft dough on the counter and knowing something really good was coming.
Maybe that’s part of why I still love being in the kitchen today.
I didn’t know I was learning anything at the time. I was just a kid helping Granny.
But looking back, I was learning much more than how to make dinner.
I was learning what it felt like to gather people around a table.
The Little Things I Remember
It’s funny what sticks with you.
I remember drinking Lipton instant tea.
I remember Granny’s applesauce cake sitting on top of the freezer. I didn’t particularly like it—but my dad loved it.
I remember the food from the garden and the work that went into canning and freezing enough of it to use throughout the year.
And I remember that if someone couldn’t make it to lunch on time, their plate wasn’t packaged neatly in a meal-prep container.
Their food went into the oven until they got there.
Different times. 😉
From Her Kitchen to Mine
My life looks very different today.
I live in the suburbs. I don’t have Granny’s farm or the enormous garden that fed the family. And while I love visiting farmers markets, I admit there are times I wish I could walk outside and pick what I needed for dinner.
The way I cook has changed too.
Over the years, health became a much bigger consideration in our family, and eventually I learned to make many of the foods we loved differently.
But I’ve realized something.
The reason I cook hasn’t changed very much at all.
I still love feeding people.
I still love gathering around the kitchen.
I still believe some of the best conversations happen while someone is cooking and everyone else somehow ends up standing nearby.
And I still believe food doesn’t have to be perfect or fancy to make people feel at home.
Some Traditions Find Their Way Back to You
Not long ago, my dad and I were together in my kitchen making Granny’s cornbread for our family’s cornbread dressing.
That moment wasn’t planned as content for a website. It was simply us making something our family has made for generations.
But now I look at that photo differently.
Granny isn’t standing in the kitchen with us anymore, but something she taught us is.
Her recipe made its way from her cast-iron skillet, through my dad, and into my kitchen.
And someday, hopefully, another generation will make it too.
That’s the thing about home.
We change houses. Kitchens get remodeled. Families grow. Life takes turns we never see coming.
But somehow the things that matter have a way of following us.
Where La Vine Living Really Began
I’ve spent a lot of time trying to figure out how all the different pieces of my life fit together—cooking, home, family, community and the stories we collect along the way.
I’m beginning to realize they were never really separate.
For me, they have always come back to home.
And more often than not, we end up in the kitchen.
That’s where this story began.
And it’s a big part of what La Vine Living means to me today.
Keep Exploring La Vine Living
Thanks for coming along! Whether I’m sharing a favorite local spot, something happening around the western suburbs, an idea for home or what’s cooking in my kitchen, I hope you’ll find a little inspiration for loving where you live.
Follow along on Instagram and Facebook, or explore more from Living Local.