For my grandma
Spring in my grandparents' apartment would always come early.
It was February, and a small white-painted kitchen was busy with the most peculiar task. A roll of toilet paper was stretched onto the table, my grandparents busying over it, having had divided the process into two distinct responsibilities. One of them would take a paint brush, dip it in potato starch mixed with water, and leave a drop of gooey gel on the roll. Then the other one would take a tiny seed of carrot and put it on the drop. One seed at a time. Usually my grandfather would be in charge of the paintbrush, and my grandmother would handle delicate seeds. Months later, as temperatures would rise above zero at nighttime and sun would warm the soil, they would carefully lay the roll down onto the ground, unrolling it bit by bit. All that work to ensure that carrots grow at equal distances, without overwhelming their neighbours, growing strong and happy in their personal space. Gardening was taken seriously in this home.
It was March, and I was having a birthday party in my grandma's living room. I invited my best friend from school, my grandma joined with two massive clay bowls of popcorn - one salty and one sweet - and then led us to the table covered with homemade apple pie and cups of black tea. She wrote me birthday poems, where happiness featured in every verse. She learned every poem that I had to learn for school, often much faster than I would.
It was April, and whenever I would visit my grandma I would be rewarded with my favourite seasonal snack - bright pink rhubarb, straight from the garden, served with a tiny flowery plate of sugar. I would dip the (seriously) sour rhubarb stem into sugar, then bite into it. And enjoy the sweet and sour explosion of spring.
It was May, and my grandparents and I were driving to the summer house in the countryside. We left the car to get some groceries, and as I returned, the car seat was no longer empty. A bunch of lollipops were laid out on it. As if by magic. Also known as my grandma.
It was June, which meant that the selection of seasonal snacks provided by my grandparents' garden intensified greatly. We would spend weekends in a yellow wooden summer house that my grandfather built himself. The house was surrounded by apple, plum and cherry trees, two greenhouses full of tomatoes, and, of course, carrots sprouting from the soil. In the morning, I would go and pick two mint leaves, wash them in the outdoors sink - built by my grandpa as well - and put them in a cup, with half a teaspoon of sugar. While my mint tea operation was ongoing, my grandma was making pancakes downstairs, in a dark chilly cellar space that housed a stove and an oven. She used two pans to quicken the process of making a pancake stack that is tall enough for the whole family. Then, she would blend fresh strawberries from the garden, and we would pour it on our indulgent pancakes.
It was July, which meant that I was in my grandparents' car heading to the forest. We would pick wild blueberries, and learn how to spot mushrooms along the way. Chanterelles, porcini, and countless others. My grandma would usually squat down and pick the berries, my grandpa would go looking for mushrooms (and snakes, my grandpa was terrified of snakes, so, naturally, he looked for them - until he would find them). Afterwards we would pack ourselves back in the car - the colour of the ocean - and drive to the summer house, which in July would be even greener, with carrots, meticulously planted, getting ready to be tasted, with the first tomatoes starting to get redder in the greenhouses, with gooseberry bushes offering increasingly sweeter berries, and dill. Dill everywhere. Before heading back to the city, my grandma would pick a bouquet of flowers for us to bring home - or would give me a short knife and set me loose in the garden to pick the flowers myself, yet another great adventure. My grandma loved flowers. Her windowsills were lined with pots of red geraniums, her garden full of orange tulips, yellow carnations, pink peonies, and purple pansies. She used to work at a flower shop, and I remember visiting it, smelling like spring, all fresh and sweet. She would make bouquets of flowers - at work, in the garden, at home. There would always be flowers.
It was August, and we would walk to a waterfall in the nearby forest, or a tiny icy stream, or we would drive to a local lake for a swim. We would play cards. A lot. My grandma would start preparing for winter, canning green tomatoes, making apple jam, pickling the cucumbers, drying the mushrooms, drying out heads of onions and garlic for winter. The summer house would turn into a food preservation factory, smelling like sweet vinegar, the smell of pickles and jam mixing in the air.
It was September, and we would settle into a school routine. I would arrive at my grandparents' home early in the morning, before the Northern sun decided to rise, while they were still in bed, my grandma in her night gown letting me in. I would sit at a table with a lamp, equipped with an extra bright light bulb, and would read novels, while my grandma prepared a breakfast. Usually a slice of rye bread with butter, fresh cheese and apple jam. And after school, I would do my homework with the same loyal lamp, as the sun would have set by then, with my grandma watching a telenovela in the background (I would keep an eye on it as well, my grandma and I engaging in a captivating discussion on the events unfolding in front of our eyes), awaiting for my parents to pick me up. And, of course, enjoying the phenomenal variety of seasonal snacks. In September, it meant deep purple plums, the size of my fist, and I'd eat them obediently at the table, their red juices dripping down my wrists. This very same table also served as the best hide-and-seek hideout. My grandma had a hiding spot of her own - in the wardrobe, at the very end of the shelf, she would have a bag of fudge hidden away from my grandpa, who would frown upon the idea of having a bag of sweets at home. Though, given that there was a key in the wardrobe door, and it clunked around loudly in the lock every time we wanted to sneak in a treat, I have a feeling my grandpa knew it all along and just let my grandma enjoy her treats. Her, and me, as her closest accomplice.
It was October, which was the time of feasts, these celebratory weekend meals, when we would come by my grandparents’ apartment at lunchtime and stay until late evening. We would step through the door and immediately smell my grandma's roasted chicken with caraway seeds. The table would barely be able to contain everything that was destined for it that day, plates of fried fish, rich salads, fresh pickles, and apple juice all competing for attention. There would be two main dishes - but you would only find that out after eating the first one. My grandma cooked it all, complete with a multi-layered rainbow-coloured jello cake, with fruit carefully laid out across each of its layers. We would talk about the harvest and the politics, family and people who I have never met before, who, also, turned out to be family. My grandpa would share stories from the army. My grandma would share stories from her flower shop era. Once, on one of these autumn feasts, she helped me prepare a violin performance. The thing is, I don't play a violin. But I picked up the instrument, and created the sounds that I could - possibly damaging the poor decades old violin - and my grandparents patiently endured that noise on every school day.
It was November, and after school my grandma was teaching me to crochet. Soon, my pre-dawn mornings would turn from reading to crocheting. I would make handbags and pencil cases, backpacks and beanies - all in a sloppy way that a nine year old can deliver, but all with pride and great engagement. I still have the crochet hooks given and gifted by my grandma. A few months ago I taught my friend to crochet, the same way my grandma taught me over two decades ago, with the same tools. It is all a gift that keeps being passed forward.
It was December, and my grandparents' Christmas tree - always real - would be decorated with candy hanging on tiny pieces of wire (or disfigured paper clips). Even the Christmas lights were hand-painted - my grandpa bought them, got disappointed that they only emitted monotone white light, and decided to paint them himself. Not just in monotone colours, he painted each tiny light bulb in patterns - stripes, polka dots, possibly using the same paint brush that was so useful earlier in the year when sticking carrot seeds on the toilet roll. The Christmas tree would come up just a few days before the Christmas Eve, and around this time my grandma would start preparing the most important dinner of the year. Fermenting cabbage so it can be stewed with dried mushrooms for hours, making the dumpling dough, baking poppyseed rolls, the list never ending. After Christmas the dark winter would settle in, but, as established, spring came early to this home, and before long my grandparents would be preparing to start the gardening season.
My grandma was there, year round, taking care of me when I was a sick toddler and my parents needed to go to work, taking care of me in primary school before and after classes, taking me to singing lessons, swimming lessons, and even the television studio that strange time when I was in a commercial. In summer, she would hand me the ripest strawberries and bring buckets of wild blueberries to my morning pancakes.
My grandma was there, until she wasn't. But I will still crochet and admire pink peonies, pick wild blueberries and chanterelles, and cook exquisite feasts complete with apple pie. Maybe one day I will even make that magical jello cake. I think my grandma would have liked that.
