” Yes,” I tell her, “I know, you are tired of hearing stories about my grandmother,” I say, warming my hands on the hot cup of Breakfast Blend. Taking a sip of the hot brew, I add, “But you have to understand those are my happiest memories of my childhood.”
“No,” she teased, “I’m not tired of hearing about your grandmother. I know you were close to her. So talk about her if you want.” She sat her coffee cup on the table and looked at me with her sparkling green eyes filled with laughter.
“My grandmother kept a chamber pot underneath her bed. I laugh every time I think about it. After all, her bathroom was only about 20 feet away from her bedroom. When I see a porcelain pot now, it reminds me of her chamber pot.”
She started laughing, “Why are we talking about chamber pots? I thought we were talking about comfort foods.”
“Well, it’s hard to think about my grandmother and not remember her chamber pot! Do you want to hear my story or not?”
“Is it going to make me puke?”
“Of course not! She told me she had been raised in the country and way before there was indoor plumbing. People had to go outside to the outhouse. At night they used their chamber pots instead of having to go outside. I guess it’s a habit she couldn’t break.”
“Can we please get back to comfort food?”
We both took sips of our coffee, now cool enough to drink. She stared at me with her questioning green eyes.
“Every night before bedtime she would ask me, “What do you want for breakfast? My answer was the same every single time, “Biscuits and gravy.” I loved her biscuits and gravy. Her biscuits were nice and fluffy and her gravy was creamy and delicious. I am hungry for them now just thinking about them.”
“And,” I continued, “We didn’t know about fancy food dishes back then. She was raised on a farm in Texas and only knew how to cook country foods. In those days people didn’t worry about food (calories, gluten, etc.) the way people do now. And, we didn’t sit all day glued to a television or computer, stuffing ourselves with Cheetos and cokes. We played outside from sun-up to sun-down, playing “kick the can” and other childish games.”
“We didn’t either,” my friend added, “We ate what mom cooked for the evening and if we didn’t like it, then we didn’t eat. At least your grandmother cooked food you wanted. And, we also had to play outside all day. Mom would always shoo us out of the house.”
Noticing that her cup was empty, I poured more Breakfast Blend in her cup and topped my cup.
“My mom always made meals that my dad asked her make before he left for work.” I explained. “We either ate it or starved that night. Some things I had to choke down holding my nose, like liver and onions.” I pretended to stick my finger down my throat and retch.
We both take a “quiet” break and concentrated on drinking our coffee.
Sometimes silence says more than words. It gives our brains a chance to pause and grasp meaning and life-altering truths . Often, those truths are just beyond our grasp, hidden among the noise and chaos of the world.
After a moment of silence, I finish my story.
“She always had a treat for us and that special treat was always the same. Every single time. It was a bottle of Dr. Pepper with a hole in the cap, made with an ice pick. She would take the cap off the bottle and pour in a package of salted peanuts and put the cap back on. After we finished the soda, we would take of the caps and eat the delicious, Dr. Pepper flavored peanuts.”
“On the rare occasions I do have biscuits and gravy now, it’s just not the same, and will never be the same. It doesn’t have her special ingredient.”
“What ingredient is that?” my friend asks.
I sigh, and softly say,