My grandmother grew up during the Great Depression. For her, Christmas meant finding one lonely orange or apple in the bottom of her stocking and occasionally a doll under the tree. It meant, that her and her five siblings would have to use the same bath water on their bathing day because "that's just how it was" when she was growing up.
In my attempt to imagine living a life other than my own, I would fantasize while she recounted stories of her childhood. I envied the simpleness of her life.
My favorite was when she would talk about being able to pick a tomato from their garden and eat it like an apple. I would visualize the sun beaming down on her face, skin glowing. Her long, messy, uncombed, golden hair blowing in the wind as she ran to the garden. A thrill filled my chest as I imagined her methodically looking for a plump, red, tomato dripping from the morning dew. A smile when she knew she had found "the one." The sound echoed in my ear and I could feel the vibration on my fingertips as she plucked it off the branch. I imagined she couldn't contain the anticipation of sinking her teeth into her tomato. But, she would. Standing still, her eyes frantically searched the yard for the perfect shady spot of solitude where she could enjoy her prize. Alone. I thought of it as her moment of pure bliss, escaping the craziness of the life she thought she had. But more than anything, I desperately wanted to know the joy she had in her eyes whenever she told that story. I wished my life to be as simple.
I'm sure the time in which she was a child caused her to be the creature of habit she had became in her later years. She did the same thing, the same way, every single day. She woke up at the same time. She went to bed at the same time. She ate the same thing for breakfast and made the same thing for dinner week after week. On Friday, dinner at Grandma's was BLT's.
My very first BLT was one Friday when I was sleeping over her house. We were the only two home for dinner that night. I was 11 or 12 years old at the time, but I had never heard of a BLT before. Even though the time I grew up in was much different than that of my grandmother's, we only ate bacon on special occasions, like Christmas morning. Having bacon for dinner felt like a reward. A BLT seemed like only something adults ate. It was like sitting at the grown up table on Thanksgiving.
I can still remember the excitement I had while I toasted the bread. My mouth watered as the smell of bacon filled every room. I took note as I watched her assemble the mayonnaise'd toast with the bacon, the lettuce, and then the tomato. It was an art that I'm certain my grandmother had perfected and no one else could duplicate.
Eating my first BLT was just like imagining my grandmother eating her garden picked tomato. Although I was inside, sitting at the kitchen table with my grandmother that evening, somehow the sun was beaming down on me. I knew there was joy in my eyes and each bite was a moment of pure bliss where I escaped the craziness of the life I thought I had.
I was inspired to write this post because of Pish Posh's "The Queen of Sandwiches" Thank you for bringing back such a special childhood memory.
