fruit of the conference today: working on sensory detail

My Grandma's Kitchen

"Grace Ann," my grandma nicknames me. "Where's the plate for your toast?"

"I don't need a plate," I say. "I have a napkin."

She walks into the pink kitchen whistling, her housecoat more muumuu-like than coat-like covering her large, soft presence with bright, huge flowers.

I'm sitting at the table, and my feet do not reach the pink and white tiled floor. My chair is brown and wooden with a rounded back and spindly chair slots. It is hard and secure.

My grandma Annie waddles over to the faded ivory refrigerator and gets out the eggs. She cracks an egg over the iron skillet, and it sizzles in bacon grease.

Orange juice on the table adds a citrus twist to the scents of smoke, bacon, and butter.

I walk to the counter, the strongest place in the house, where the real work is done. I grab a strawberry-patterned plate and sit back at the table.

"There's my girl," she says. "Now, we're not off to a fire. Here you go." She places the buttered, white toast on my plate.

"Your grandpa always wanted the butter spread all the way to the edges," she tells me.

"Did he want you to cut off the crusts?" I ask.

"Sometimes," she says. I look at her, past the cigarette lighter, the keys, and the napkins at the center of the table. "I love it just like this, Grandma," I say. "You're the best cook ever."

She stands beneath the glow of a cheap light fixture with dead bugs trapped in it. She smiles at me, her blue eyes twinkling as the sound of a game over the radio on KFAB drifts in, the bacon sizzles, and I eat my breakfast.