Lakeside Memories: Magic in the Kitchen

“What’s that?”

“Fairy dust.”

“Fairy dust!” I responded, bewildered and amazed, as my grandmother sprinkled white powder on the crusty pastry cloth. The smell of cinnamon and vanilla pervaded the small, yellow kitchen of the lake house. I watched Gram effortlessly roll out a round shape of dough on the cloth with her rolling pin, sprinkle a small scoop of the white powder over the pale, yellow dough, gently lift the shape and lay it back on the cloth, and continue rolling. The shape on the cloth grew larger and thinner as she worked.

“Where does the fairy dust come from?” I wanted to know.

Small beads of sweat dotted Gram’s forehead in the hot, humid South Dakotan summer morning. She reached for a hand towel and patted her moist forehead. In the background the voice of a preacher softly droned on and on from the radio that sat on the kitchen table.

“The fairies leave it in the night when they come to visit,” she explained, quietly and matter-of-factly.

“Why do they come?” I pressed on.

“Well… I guess to leave us fairy dust. So that we can have delicious cookies and pies."

She meticulously cut out round shapes with her dull, silver cookie cutter, bent and misshapen from years of use. Her fingers worked magic in the cookie dough, lifting the circles of dough and carefully plopping them on the cookie sheet.

From somewhere outside the kitchen window I heard my name: “Bobby!” The lake was calm, with tiny wavelets lapping the moss-covered rocks on the shore, harmonizing with the droning of the bees that buzzed from flower to flower in Gram’s garden. The flowers, no longer glistening from the morning dew, bent with the weight of their busy visitors. “Bobby!” my older brother called again. “Come out and play Indians with me."

Now came the dilemma: to stay in the kitchen and enjoy Gram’s magic, or to romp in the yard with Mickey, catching frogs, swimming in the lake, fishing. I chose the kitchen this time. There would be many other days for adventures outside: to play, to fish, to explore. But there was little that could compare with the adventures with Gram in her very own kitchen. Besides, the incentive of a warm, freshly baked cookie was enticing.

I loved watching her agile fingers work the dough for cinnamon rolls or lefse--a Norwegian potato pastry; smelling the cloves and cinnamon and ginger that complemented her culinary works of art; tasting the warm, crisp cookies, or the soft, doughy cookies, or the boysenberry pies; feeling the cookie dough ooze between my fingers as I played with it; and hearing her stories as she wove together fantasy and reality for me. All these memories remain in my blood as an inextricable bond to the simple wonders of the everyday world.

“Nah. I want to stay in here and help Gramma,” I yelled to Mickey, who probably only wanted me to play because he was bored.

“Baby,” he muttered.

Gram shot a quick glance in my direction, looked at the timer on the stove, and continued her creation, spooning dollops of raisin sauce on each circle of dough, covering each with another circle, and pressing the edges of the circles together to form raisin-filled cookies that were a delight to family and friends.

Ding! sounded the timer. Calmly, Gram removed the cookie sheet covered with her heavenly cookies from the oven and set it on the counter.

“Are they coming back?” I wondered.

“Who?"

“The fairies."

“Oh. . . . Yes, they’ll be back when it’s time."

“Have you ever seen them?” I had to know.

“Oh, no. They won’t let us see them."

I will never understand where she got her patience. My questioning was relentless, and yet she never scolded me. She merely applied her little tricks to persuade us to do something, and I, a typical five-year-old, fell for them.

“You know… it’s going to take a while for these cookies to cool enough to eat. Why don’t you go outside and play with your brother for a while. I’ll call you when they’re ready."

Out the door I dashed. Mickey was standing by the lake, bored and ready to play with anyone--even with me, his little brother. He and my other brother had probably had a fight.

“Let’s see who can throw a rock farthest,” he suggested. We collected our cache of ammunition from the pebbles and rocks on the shore and ran out to the end of the dock. Of course, he threw his rocks much farther than I. It did not take us long to tire of that game.

“I know. Let’s play bow and arrows,” he said. He hit the target; I didn’t. But that wasn’t important. One activity led to another, which led to another, and another, and before long it was time for supper. By that time I had forgotten all about the warm cookies and Gram’s promise to call me.

The lake was shimmering in the early evening calm and the trees cast their long, dark shadows on the soft ripples in the velvety water. Tomorrow would be a new day, full of excitement, with countless things to do.

*********

I awoke to a noise coming from the kitchen. Maybe it’s the fairies, I thought. To my disappointment, it was just Gramp, making toast to eat with his coffee.

“Hi, Gramp."

“Morning, Bobby,” he said in surprise. “Up so early?"

“Yeah. I thought maybe I could see the fairies."

“What fairies?” he quizzed me. After stirring two sugar cubes in his coffee, he poured some coffee into his saucer and set his cup on the placemat. Picking up his saucer with both hands, he carefully blew on the hot liquid. The ripples on the coffee reminded me of the lake during a gentle breeze. Then he slurped the coffee, which by now had cooled enough to drink.

“You know--the ones that come at night and leave the fairy dust."

“Hmmmph,” was all he said. “Want some coffee?"

He poured some of his coffee into a small saucer and placed it in front of me. Having watched his morning ritual, I knew exactly how to blow on the coffee and slurp it just like him.

“Don’t spill it,” he warned.

I thought I would try one more time: “Have you ever seen the fairies at night?

He smacked his lips after one more slurp of coffee. The corner of his mouth created the hint of a smile. “Drink your coffee” was all he said.

The sun was peeking over the trees on the other side of the lake, spreading out a blanket of gold over the water. A light breeze coaxed the ripples to the shore, where they disappeared on the rocks. In Gramp’s glasses I could see the quiet beauty of the lake. I could also see that I wasn’t going to get anywhere by asking him more questions.

There we sat, silently taking in the sunrise. I breathed in the aroma of the freshly percolated coffee. I breathed in the calm of the lake and the morning wake-up calls of the birds. I breathed in the love of my grandparents and the security of being a child in a loving family. I breathed in more than I even realized: the childhood memories that make up the fabric of my life--a rich, fascinating, colorful quilt of interconnected pieces, all of which compose me, and without all of which, I would not be who I am.

(Written in July 2005)