Mamaw’s Kitchen

We woke up to the smell of coffee, breakfast and burning wood — her kitchen super-heated twelve months of the year.

Buttermilk biscuits, never burned on those hot, hot pans. Eggs a perfect over easy and bacon crisp as only Mamaw's iron skillet could produce.

Her daughter bought her an electric range; had it installed as a present. That "newfangled, useless piece of metal" sat in a corner, unwelcome and unused until one of the grand-kids finally trucked it to their house.

Multi-colored, handmade jelly pots, salt and pepper shakers, knickknacks of brightly designed porcelain from local artists sat next to dented, darkened metal pieces that were just as special to her.
Everything in place, and reached almost without thought.

Her busy life now grayed into a memory — kitchen shelves remind us, her gnarled hands are at rest.