Is there a history of food in your family? There are a lot of stories about food in mine: rituals for what food is to be eaten at which holiday, carefully researched histories of which aunt it was who originated a favorite family recipe, tales about how certain individuals cooked or learned to cook, and legends about the culinary artistry of certain family members. Many of these stories in the Bruner family have as their main character my paternal grandmother. These stories remain fresh in my memory even though the last time I ate at my grandmother’s table was in 1964, just months before she died.
When Grandma came home from church in Bowie, Texas, the screen door would scree open, and this six foot tall, broad-shouldered woman would enter. Without bending to touch them, she would kick off her low-heeled shoes under the end of the sofa, and quietly cross the hardwood floors in stocking feet. Moving to the kitchen, she would cross in front of Granddad, who had been firmly ensconced in his chair with his newspaper and Winstons all morning long. She would take off her pillbox hat en route, Bible still firmly pinned beneath one elbow; Grandma never went to worship without a hat on her head – it was not to be done. Putting away the hat and Bible in the kitchen, she would begin work on lunch.
There was something spiritual about Grandma’s cooking. It seemed that she imitated the divine in her ability to make a feast for a large family out of practically nothing. And surely what she cooked was so heavenly that even the angels must have been tempted to find some excuse to drop in without notice. Although she had a very cautious view of manifestations of the Holy Spirit, surely some of her recipes must have been inspired: she very rarely resorted to any written notes. Usually she just quietly worked: chopping, sifting, mixing, kneading, folding, straining, stirring, crimping, seasoning, tasting. She would measure when she baked or canned, but the rest was done by sight, smell, texture, and taste. Meanwhile, as she continued her work, this amazing symphony of smells would emerge from her kitchen, making the very idea of a dinner bell absurdly redundant. People would just intuitively migrate to the kitchen, like the hopeful chosen divinely called to the land of promise and plenty. There was this now, and not yet, about the whole experience; you could smell it, and you could see some of it, you just hoped that the world wouldn’t end before you got a chance to eat it.
Finally, we were allowed to sit at the table. Grandma brought coffee to the table for Granddad, coffee so hot that Granddad always had to pour some into a saucer to sip before he could drink from the cup. Baked ham, potato salad, fresh-snapped black-eyed peas, fresh vegetables, peach preserves on hot biscuits, and banana pudding. Heaven at the kitchen table.
I’ve had parts of this meal since: Ann has figured out the black-eyed peas and the potato salad. But no one can quite get the banana pudding, or the peach preserves, or the chow-chow to match up with my memories. I can relish recalling past pleasures of the table, and tastes of heaven in the present, but the experience of sitting at my grandmother’s table is not possible any more. Still, I live in hope. Hope that one day I will once again sit at a heavenly table with her and enjoy the quiet and faithful comfort of her presence. And perhaps she won’t even have to cook. God can cook after all. The family of faith has its cooking stories, too. It’s true. Read this:
When they had gone ashore, they saw a charcoal fire there, with fish on it, and bread. Jesus said to them, "Bring some of the fish that you have just caught." So Simon Peter went aboard and hauled the net ashore, full of large fish, a hundred fifty-three of them; and though there were so many, the net was not torn. Jesus said to them, "Come and have breakfast." Now none of the disciples dared to ask him, "Who are you?" because they knew it was the Lord. Jesus came and took the bread and gave it to them, and did the same with the fish. This was now the third time that Jesus appeared to the disciples after he was raised from the dead.
John 21:9-14 - NRSV
I can just imagine how good this meal tasted to this hungry crew: hot, tasty, filling. Since everything Jesus did was well done, I have to believe that this meal was refreshing, delicious, and satisfying.
But one of these days God will bring us to a table
where we can all be satisfied in a way that is, unbelievable as it is,
beyond even the masterful cooking skills of my dear grandmother.
We can have deservedly fond memories of the table of the past,
and we really need to celebrate our time together at the table today,
but, oh, what a day is coming! What a banquet is being prepared!
I think that I can smell dinner cooking already . . .
Say grace, and enjoy peace at his table,
In hopes of the table to come,
Ron
When Grandma came home from church in Bowie, Texas, the screen door would scree open, and this six foot tall, broad-shouldered woman would enter. Without bending to touch them, she would kick off her low-heeled shoes under the end of the sofa, and quietly cross the hardwood floors in stocking feet. Moving to the kitchen, she would cross in front of Granddad, who had been firmly ensconced in his chair with his newspaper and Winstons all morning long. She would take off her pillbox hat en route, Bible still firmly pinned beneath one elbow; Grandma never went to worship without a hat on her head – it was not to be done. Putting away the hat and Bible in the kitchen, she would begin work on lunch.
There was something spiritual about Grandma’s cooking. It seemed that she imitated the divine in her ability to make a feast for a large family out of practically nothing. And surely what she cooked was so heavenly that even the angels must have been tempted to find some excuse to drop in without notice. Although she had a very cautious view of manifestations of the Holy Spirit, surely some of her recipes must have been inspired: she very rarely resorted to any written notes. Usually she just quietly worked: chopping, sifting, mixing, kneading, folding, straining, stirring, crimping, seasoning, tasting. She would measure when she baked or canned, but the rest was done by sight, smell, texture, and taste. Meanwhile, as she continued her work, this amazing symphony of smells would emerge from her kitchen, making the very idea of a dinner bell absurdly redundant. People would just intuitively migrate to the kitchen, like the hopeful chosen divinely called to the land of promise and plenty. There was this now, and not yet, about the whole experience; you could smell it, and you could see some of it, you just hoped that the world wouldn’t end before you got a chance to eat it.
Finally, we were allowed to sit at the table. Grandma brought coffee to the table for Granddad, coffee so hot that Granddad always had to pour some into a saucer to sip before he could drink from the cup. Baked ham, potato salad, fresh-snapped black-eyed peas, fresh vegetables, peach preserves on hot biscuits, and banana pudding. Heaven at the kitchen table.
I’ve had parts of this meal since: Ann has figured out the black-eyed peas and the potato salad. But no one can quite get the banana pudding, or the peach preserves, or the chow-chow to match up with my memories. I can relish recalling past pleasures of the table, and tastes of heaven in the present, but the experience of sitting at my grandmother’s table is not possible any more. Still, I live in hope. Hope that one day I will once again sit at a heavenly table with her and enjoy the quiet and faithful comfort of her presence. And perhaps she won’t even have to cook. God can cook after all. The family of faith has its cooking stories, too. It’s true. Read this:
When they had gone ashore, they saw a charcoal fire there, with fish on it, and bread. Jesus said to them, "Bring some of the fish that you have just caught." So Simon Peter went aboard and hauled the net ashore, full of large fish, a hundred fifty-three of them; and though there were so many, the net was not torn. Jesus said to them, "Come and have breakfast." Now none of the disciples dared to ask him, "Who are you?" because they knew it was the Lord. Jesus came and took the bread and gave it to them, and did the same with the fish. This was now the third time that Jesus appeared to the disciples after he was raised from the dead.
John 21:9-14 - NRSV
I can just imagine how good this meal tasted to this hungry crew: hot, tasty, filling. Since everything Jesus did was well done, I have to believe that this meal was refreshing, delicious, and satisfying.
But one of these days God will bring us to a table
where we can all be satisfied in a way that is, unbelievable as it is,
beyond even the masterful cooking skills of my dear grandmother.
We can have deservedly fond memories of the table of the past,
and we really need to celebrate our time together at the table today,
but, oh, what a day is coming! What a banquet is being prepared!
I think that I can smell dinner cooking already . . .
Say grace, and enjoy peace at his table,
In hopes of the table to come,
Ron
