My grandmother’s kitchen has always been small-with a stove, a miniature oven, and a diminutive shelf for hanging kitchen tools. But out of it came dishes redolent in aromas: steaming noodles, a nest hosting a pool of peppery meat sauce; garlicky stir fry tomatoes, the scrambled eggs hidden like treasure gold-warm baked cranberry bread, all which gave a visiting grandchild a reason to rise early in the morning, sit beside the warm hearth, a slice of freshly baked breakfast in each hand, a ceramic bowl of congee balanced in the lap.
I remembered one occasion where she had let me help with a pasta sauce-she's always open to new types of cooking, regardless of East or West. In this case, she decided to cook Italian for her "dear grandbabies".(quoting her.)
Taking a knife in her hand, she finely chops the garlic until the pieces are small. Shallots came next, less pungent than its feisty cousin, the onion, but equally flavorful. Sausage, carefully diced into quarter-slices. Whole tomatoes, blended in a food processor, smelling of goodness.
Heating up oil in the cast iron pan, she motions for me to come watch. Butter came first, melting. Then garlic, the aroma filling the whole kitchen. Shallots. a whisper of flavor accompanying the butter and garlic. At this point, she pauses and looks at me.
"Meat sauce needs red wine. But if you put it too early, it taste sour. So now, we add milk."
Gently, the milk slips into the sauce, the meat absorbing it, becoming an ashy gray. Tomato sauce came next, harmonious with the sausage.
Lastly, my grandmother puts in a dash of red wine.
Lifting the pan from the stove, she beams triumphantly. "Finished!"
Now that the pandemic has separated us by so many weary miles, the most I can do is to think of her while cooking her recipes. Grandma, I miss you.