Grandma’s Hands 

Those younger days during the holidays. 

I was a chef in my own mind as I helped grandma cook thanksgiving dinner. But the best part was the sweet potato pie. 

The main course was only the anticipation before the climax.

First, we gathered our ingredients making sure we had everything we needed to be successful.

Just as a mother would prepare her daughter with the fundamentals of life before shaping her and sending her out into the world.

We started on a clean counter with clean hands and a determined mind.

My grandma’s hands coached me through the beginning steps of what she had done a hundred times. 

It was engraved in her mind as she just started to scratch the surface of mine. She never used a measuring cup although she owned one.

She would take scoops of flour from the plastic yellow bin and shift the flour from a metal sifter.

She did her mental measuring adding more when she desired as I stirred standing up on the black plastic foot stool. 

Next, we perfected the puree making sure there were no lumps and the flavor was excellent.

We took a wooden spoon doing taste tests.

I could have sworn I could have eaten the puree just as.

But it was all in the details and the store-bought crust that my grandma inspected was perfect as I helped her pour the orange puree in.

Cleaning up the edges. 

The appearance was important. 

No one would choose an ugly pie even if the flavor was immaculate because they wouldn’t even get that far. 

In this step of life, the mother has gone and the child is left alone to fix her own mistakes and perfect her appearance. 

The last step before the pie ends up in the stomach and then back into the earth is the pressure.

The oven contained the heat of the world.

It preheated waiting to turn the pie into something else.

Just before my grandmother lined the crust with aluminum foil making sure the edges crisped.

One last look as I opened the oven and she popped the pie inside. 

The grown child now faces the heat of learning the positions of the world and teaching herself everything her mother didn’t.

After checking the oven and turning the light on staring at the pie. 

My grandmother took the pie out with a charred black oven mitt 

She placed it on the counter and removed the foil 

I smiled big without my two front teeth jumping up and down knowing she would give me credit for creating it.

The last step of life where the child has fully grown and lived before death bows among them.