“Grandmama may I have one more please?” I said, begging for another piece of hot French-Toast from the hot 1950’s skillet. This weekend couldn’t get any better. My cousins and I were sitting in the swivel chairs that wrapped around the kitchen counters. The dark hardwood cabinets were full of antique dishes, regularly used Tupperware and balls of plastic grocery bags ready to be repurposed accumulated from 40 years of a solid marriage.
On the laminate countertops, I could see through my sleepy eyes that Grandmamma was steady dipping yet another piece of white bread into the homemade egg mixture to really soak up as much as possible. The smell of nutmeg, vanilla and cinnamon coming from the shallow dish was running low but it was just enough to coat both sides evenly. The frying pan was already nice and hot from feeding us single pieces faithfully, one after the other.
Grandmamma and Granddaddy’s kitchen was a where I learned so many life lessons. At that time, they were just eyerolling one-liners that we would laugh at and try our best to repeat in his deep southern voice. We were at Grandmama and Granddaddy’s house for the weekend while our parent’s were off doing something productive, I’m sure.
“Blake, do you want another piece?” Grandmamma asked with a content smile as she slid mine piece of French toast straight off of the hot pan onto my plate. I cut off a piece of butter with my knife and the butter melted down quickly from the middle and ran off of the sides as the warm maple syrup was poured to smother it down.
Blake was my favorite cousin. He and I were both right around the same age. I was six and he was five but just a few months younger. His older brother Michael and I were technically the same age. The three of us just loved staying at Grandmamma and Granddaddy’s house for the weekend together.
Blake and I had just made our way straight from the formal living room’s soft cream colored shag carpeted floor that Grandmama had thrown together on the floor. There was always the option of sleeping in their guest bedroom on the queen-sized bed, but why do that when you could sleep you’re your cousin on the other end of the house on a pallet on the floor next to the kitchen.
It had been a late night that night for me and Blake, but I guess Grandmamma didn’t need to know about that. When the old pocket door slid shut and the lights were turned out, that didn’t mean we went to sleep right away. The living room was one of those rooms where the rarely played piano, white long drapes over the windows, Blake and Michael’s mom’s wedding portrait was on the wall and photos of my parent’s wedding were on the coffee table and stiff sit and you’re in trouble furniture were kept.
That morning, Michael was already out in the garage helping Granddaddy change the oil and put a new belt on his riding mower. Michael was more mechanically gifted than the two of us, but to me learning to put a new belt on Granddaddy’s V-Twin engine riding lawn mower was not something I was particularly interested in doing on my Saturday morning.
Michael was quick to get up early and leave me and Blake to sleep in when the sun was just barley starting to come up. I guess he got up when Granddaddy could be heard stirring around and coughing in the kitchen. I would put my pillow over my ears to not hear the hacking and to try and sleep-in. Everyone could hear the microwave door slam shut as the old man grabbed his cup of hot water out to make his first cup of instant coffee.
