Best meals were
seasoned with love
By Jan Penton-MIller
Columnist
My cousins, siblings, and I ran in and out of the old farmhouse, screen door
slamming as we whizzed by. My grandmother never seemed to notice the noise.
Every now and again she would fetch a flyswatter or two and ask us if we wanted
to take care of the pesky ones buzzing about.
She never scolded that I can remember. Mamaw seemed to understand the pent
up energy of children and took everything in stride. When I think of her I can still
see her faded blue eyes twinkling at the antics of her grandchildren.
“Mamaw, we’re hungry! Something sure smells good. How long before we eat?”
“Wash your hands, children. It’s almost ready. Come on in and find a seat.”
The smell of fried chicken and biscuits drifted through the open window of the
dining room causing my mouth to water. I ran with the others to dutifully give my
hands a quick wash before settling down for Sunday dinner. In reality, Mamaw
cooked such large meals that every day seemed like a special treat.
Most of the food on the table came from the farm. Papaw and Mamaw raised
vegetables of all kinds. Tomatoes fresh from the garden had a taste far better
than anything bought in a store. The chicken on the platter had been scratching
around the farmyard only hours before.
The plates of steaming apple fritters never failed to delight. The apple trees out
by the barn along with my grandmother’s busy hands brought smiles of
satisfaction to the hungry brood time after time. When I think of it, the menu
never changed much, but in those days we never thought of wanting something
different. We ate whatever my Mamaw cooked, and it was always fresh, hot, and
seasoned with love.
Papaw asked the blessing before each meal. He was not long-winded or
particularly eloquent. He just thanked the good Lord for our food and asked that it
be blessed to nourish our bodies. My Papaw knew that God was in charge of all
the things that brought a good crop. If the rain didn’t come at the right time an
entire season’s work could be lost. It was this knowledge, I think, that helped my
grandfather to remember that all life is precious and a gift.
After our meal the adults would settle down with coffee and speak in hushed
tones. Some of the younger children settled in for a nap. Occasionally, I would

nod off myself, but I tried and tried to keep my eyes open so I wouldn’t miss a
tidbit of conversation.
After a few minutes the older kids were off and running again. We usually didn’t
slow down until the hue of the evening sky began to deepen and our parents
called us in.
Weekends spent on my grandparent’s farm seemed perfect, and I wanted to
recreate these special moments for my own children and grands. The problem is
my precious ones live from one end of the country to the other.
My plan of having my table filled with grandchildren looks different from what I
imagined, but one thing is the same. Whether it’s my local grandchild, Gauge, at
the kitchen bar or my two when his Tennessee cousin, Aidan, comes to visit, the
food and conversation is seasoned with love.