I keep having this weird, really strong memory of walking in my grandma’s front door. I don’t know what the deal is, but I’ll be sitting at work or opening my own door and all of a sudden it hits me, in that way that memories can, like it’s almost real, that I am opening the front door to my Grandma’s house.
I can practically smell what she has cooking, most likely, for us, beef and noodles.
My cousin A. mentioned the other day how it would be nice to get the whole family together again, like we did at Grandma A.’s, and maybe that’s what’s got me thinking of it.
I probably should finish unpacking the boxes in the garage, so that I can get that beef and noodles recipe out of my Bible.
That is one thing I’d like to try to make now that I am an adult, her big fat, floury noodles, almost more like dumpling strings than what we think of as noodles. And cooked in the juices of a simmering pot roast until it’s all a big beefy, peppery wonder.