I stood on the corner of 90th South 2700 West, Salt Lake City. My mother held my hand as we waited for the bus. It was 1983, I was 10 years old. As the bus came to a complete stop in front of us, it let out a loud, “Psst” like the air being knocked out of a hydraulic dinosaur. The doors opened and I entered the bus alone. My mother stood on the corner waving. It was the first time I left the neighborhood on my own.

 

My mother and I had made the bus ride to my grandmother’s a million times in my 10 years. I knew the way so well I could of walked it if it wasn’t such a long distance, still, I was nervous. I knew I would have no trouble getting off at the right spot to make the transfer, but still, I kept an eager eye on our every turn. I made it and grandma picked me up at the stop by her house. 

 

Immediately after exiting I happily embraced my grandmother and relax in her warmth and affection. All the excitement and travel had made me hungry. I wanted to eat. “Grandma,” I announced, “I am starving. Let’s go to Subway.”

 

Shocked, as if I’d said the F-word, she said with disgust “Subway! I will make you a sandwich better than any damned Subway!” And she did.

 

I still remember that sandwich and about everything else my grandmother fed me, like sourdough pancakes, tuna fish with sweet pickles, and raw goat milk (way before it was hip). But mostly what I remember is how much better my grandmother’s food was than any damned corporate chain restaurant. Twenty eight years later my grandmother’s food is the bench mark of my pallet. My culinary skills are built on her foundation. Long after my grandmother can no longer cook for me or the family, she’ll still be feeding us, I have her recipes!

 

For me this blog is what I have learned while trying to cook like my grandma.

 

Farmer Marty