This weekend, we headed off on one of our periodic jaunts to Kerrville, to see my grandparents, my aunt and uncle, two cousins and my parents (who also drove down). It’ll be the last one for a while, as we’re moving, and I found myself taking mental snapshots all weekend.
The deep wrinkles around my grandfather’s faded green eyes, which crinkle into laugh lines when he smiles. The strength in his hands, which can chop an onion, carve a brisket, create a beautiful wood cabinet, draw a portrait in pencil or chalk, fill in a Sudoku puzzle or fry up bacon. (And many more things.)
The smells in my grandparents’ kitchen…eggs sizzling on the griddle for breakfast, bacon frying, brisket roasting, chocolate-chip cookies baking. Coffee brewing, beans simmering, foil-wrapped potatoes baking. Yum.
The quiet moments in between meals, where we all sit at the kitchen table, reading the paper or playing gin or watching hummingbirds sip from the red sage blossoms outside. The sunlight on the saltillo-tile floor; the high white textured plaster walls; Neno’s collection of vintage teapots, on a sage-green cabinet in the corner. They have a lovely living room, but we hardly ever use it when we’re there: we live in the kitchen.
The old blue fold-out couch, padded with a foam layer and two extra blankets, on which J and I slept this weekend. (I’ve spent many a night on it, but this was his first.) The photos of many unknown ancestors, looking at us sternly from the walls; Pop’s two hat racks, one for baseball caps and one for cowboy hats; photos of my cousins playing sports. And my grandparents’ wedding photos, tiny 3 x 3 snapshots, which Neno dug out from somewhere, and gave me one to keep.
The happy cacophony of us all talking at once, at lunch or dinner or in between, always three conversations happening simultaneously. (It reminds me so much of the family in While You Were Sleeping…and it’s even funnier since the talk kept circling back to John Wayne, whom they mention in the movie.)
The long game of Mexican Train on Friday night, white dominoes covering the round wooden table, all of us groaning when we drew dominoes with “lots of dots,” Pop pushing the button to make the plastic train whistle, Neno misplaying a domino or two. (She’s done that for years, and it always cracks us all up, including her.) My dad, keeping score meticulously on a lined notepad and announcing the scores every so often. Neno beating Pop on the very last hand.
The creamy texture and vanilla-heavy flavor of homemade ice cream, served in blue-and-white bowls on both Friday and Saturday nights. The smoky taste of bacon and the tang of sourdough toast. The tartness of cranberry juice at breakfast; the warmth of a hot mug of tea; the nibbles of cookies and sourdough pretzels between meals. Time at Neno and Pop’s always means food, good food, and lots of it.
I know we’ll be visiting Kerrville again, but it may be a while before we make it back to this long, low stone house, roofed with tin, set among agaves and yuccas and other succulents on a hill outside of town. This isn’t the house I visited as a child – that old blue farmhouse is long gone – but I have many happy memories in this house, and I’ll carry these mental (and some digital) snapshots with me to Boston. And for the rest of my life.
Happy Love Thursday, all. May you find places this week where you feel loved.
What a sweet and vivid post. Love it!
Well, this just turned me to into a pile of mush. In a good way. 🙂
[…] I do love breakfast food, and my grandfather’s breakfast spreads are one of the chief joys of visiting their house. The man fries a mean egg, and there’s always plenty of […]
[…] her) and band activities (for me). My mom’s folks moved to Texas when I was 13; they now live four hours away from my parents instead of twenty-four. I miss their old blue farmhouse, but we were and are glad […]